


A Study in Green

by wreckingtomlinson



Category: One Direction (Band), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Sherlock AU, implied Ziam but waaaay in the background
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-01-02 17:42:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckingtomlinson/pseuds/wreckingtomlinson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ON INDEFINITE HIATUS</p><p>Sherlock AU where Harry is glad he found a friend, Louis never thought he'd end up chasing down murderers, Zayn and Liam can't possibly be running a <i>bakery</i>, of all things, and Niall is too nice to suspect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This AU was inspired by [this photo](http://25.media.tumblr.com/845413b4fbbdcec121fa410e462a5c17/tumblr_mh1ozcGzOB1r854ito1_250.jpg). When I saw it all I could think was "wow, Harry really reminds me of Sherlock in that coat" and it all snowballed from there. I like to call this Styles!lock. Love and thanks to Emily for being my source of encouragement throughout the crazy writing process. Attempts at Britpicking were made but I can't promise it's great.
> 
> The necessary disclaimers: I do not claim to own or be associated with any characters or persons portrayed in this work except for original characters. I have absolutely no knowledge of Scotland Yard/the Metropolitan Police Department beyond what I've seen from _Sherlock_ so this will probably be a little inaccurate.
> 
> Here goes nothing.

It was the first time Liam Payne was late to the pub. He hated it, but there was really nothing he could do about it. Just as he was about to leave he’d gotten held up by a phone call from the pub’s owner Perrie Edwards, who also happened to be an old friend. She was going on about how she’d had to leave the pub in the hands of the assistant manager because she was stuck home sick. By the time he made it out the door, it was already half eight.

The Rope and Compass was a rather small pub. Liam liked to think it was the kind that drew a very specific crowd—no tourists or loiterers came into the Rope and Compass. Tucked away down a small alley in Soho London, it was small, dimly lit and somewhat cramped during the busy hours. The floor above held several rooms for rent as well. 

As Liam descended the stairs from his second-floor flat to the ground floor where the pub was located, he could already smell the ale. He emerged from the side door into the pub, which was already packed. Immediately his brow knitted. Something felt off, but he had no idea why he thought so. It was as though the chatter wasn’t as loud, like the crowd wasn’t as lively. Shrugging it off, his dark eyes scanned the sea of faces for his co-worker. 

Zayn Malik was seated at the bar, chatting with a female bartender whose name Liam forgot. Liam waded through the crowd and took a seat next to Zayn. 

“You’re late.” Zayn’s dark hazel eyes glared at Liam from underneath long lashes. “You said you’d be down right after me.” 

“Sorry. Perrie called right as I was about to come down.” 

Zayn’s brow furrowed, as he pocketed his phone. “What did she want?” 

Liam shrugged. “She said she can’t come in tonight. Sick. She said she left Josh in charge. Hey, where’s Niall?” 

“He’s over…somewhere.” Zayn motioned vaguely to the crowd. “He was here a little early, so I told him he could go socialize a bit.” 

“Has anyone booked him for the night?” 

Zayn shook his head. “Not yet. It probably won’t be long until someone does, though. Penny, Libby, and Helen are here as well, over there.” He pointed to a trio of young women, all in their twenties, sitting at a table in the corner nursing various drinks. “And Matt said he’s on his way. Ran into some closures on the Tube so he’s having some trouble getting here.” 

Liam frowned. Someone was missing. “What about Cat?” 

“No idea.” Sighing, Zayn raked a hand through his black hair, messing up the quiff he’d styled his hair into earlier in the evening. “I just texted her and called her, but she’s not answering.” 

“What the hell? Why?” Liam furrowed his brow, wondering what happened. It wasn’t as though Cat Pembroke was never late, but she _always_ picked up her phone.

“Yeah, really. She’d better show up soon.” Zayn leaned back in his chair. “Didn’t mean to sound cross, by the way. Just not too happy with Cat, is all. Hey, looks like Niall’s made a friend already.” 

Liam followed Zayn’s gaze to a short, somewhat stocky blond lad standing in the corner with another, much taller man. The blond was giggling so loudly Liam could hear it from where he was sitting. Liam couldn’t help but grin. Niall Horan was by far the friendliest, liveliest person he’d ever met. The lad was always smiling or laughing at something, like everything was hilarious. He was incredibly endearing, and Liam still didn’t quite understand why Niall was involved with them. 

Liam and Zayn had met Niall in that very pub late one Saturday night six months before. Liam remembered overhearing Niall’s thick Irish accent carrying through the room, lamenting his lack of a job to his pint glass. 

“Excuse me, did you say you needed a job?” Liam interrupted, taking the seat next to Niall. 

Cloudy blue eyes stared back at him. “Yeah,” Niall slurred, his drunken state making his brogue even more pronounced. “M’not at uni anymore. Couldn’t do it. Dropped out. Can’t go home to Mullingar though, me mum’d kill me. Got to stay in London and do something, but I don’t know what I’m gonna do.” He laughed uneasily. “Something that pays well. But something you don’t have to go to uni for. What’s that leave me? Music? I can play guitar a little. But that’s hard. Can’t make it in music. Porn, maybe,” he answered himself. 

Liam had no idea how to respond. Luckily, Zayn stepped in, sliding into the chair on Niall’s other side. “Well, how about something similar?” 

Liam was unprepared for the enthusiasm Niall showed at Zayn’s proposal. “I’ll do it,” Niall said without a trace of hesitation. 

“Wait, Zayn, the lad’s pissed. Maybe we shouldn’t ask him now,” Liam cut in. 

“No, I wanna do it.” Niall drained the last of his pint, which didn’t do much for Liam’s case. 

But Zayn sided with Liam, only asking for Niall’s contact information and promising to call the next day to discuss it further. 

“Liam, he’s perfect,” Zayn said later. “He’s likeable, he’s funny, and he’s got that innocent sort of look. No one would ever suspect him.” 

“I don’t know.” Liam was still uneasy. “He seems too _nice_.” _Too nice for this kind of work,_ he added in his head. 

“I know. That’s what people will like about him.” 

Ultimately, Zayn got his way—Niall accepted the offer while sober the next day, so now here they all were. Despite the strict professional dynamic Liam and Zayn employed with the others, they both considered Niall to be as close to a friend as was possible, considering their jobs. 

Niall bounced over to Liam and Zayn, breaking Liam’s reverie. “Hey, Liam,” Niall said brightly, shaking his hand. “Doing alright?” 

“Yeah, thanks,” Liam replied with a smile. “You seem to be doing well, too.” 

“Saw you chatting up a bloke over there in the corner,” Zayn said suggestively with a raised eyebrow. 

“Oh, him?” Niall shook his head. “Nah. I don’t think he goes that way. Might go for one of the girls, though.” 

“It’s alright. We’ve got all night.” Zayn grinned and patted Niall on the shoulder. “Let me get you a pint.” 

“Is everyone else here?” Niall hopped into the seat next to Zayn. 

“Matt’s on his way and he should be here soon, but we’ve got no idea where Cat is,” Liam said. 

Niall cocked his head. “She’s usually not late. Have you tried calling her?” 

“Yeah. She’s not answering her phone at all, which is really pissing me off.” Zayn shrugged and waved the bartender over. 

“Huh. That’s strange.” 

“Yeah, and really irritating as well.” Liam checked his watch. It was nearly nine. “She’s an hour late.” 

“ _You_ were half an hour late,” Zayn reminded him 

Liam made a face. “Well, you knew where I was.” 

“I hope she’s alright,” Niall said, half to himself. 

Liam rolled his eyes. That was Niall’s natural tendency to care so much for everyone around him, but late was late. “She’d better have a damn good reason.” Liam glanced around at the crowd, then to Niall, who was picking at his fingernails, and lastly to Zayn, who had received his pint glass and was already drinking from it. “Zayn, if I go out to find Cat, you’ll be alright, yeah?” 

Zayn nodded. “Yeah, go on. Don’t take too long.” 

“I’ll go with you,” Niall offered. 

“No, stay,” Liam said quickly. “You’re needed.” 

“Ah, go on, Niall, go ahead,” Zayn said. “It’s fine, Liam, just don’t be too long.” 

“See you.” Liam pulled his jacket on and left the pub with Niall. 

Out on the sidewalks, half a dozen people were leaning against the walls with long white cigarettes pinched between their fingers and smoke issuing from their lips. Liam held his breath as he walked through them—he hated the smell of cigarette smoke. He didn’t know how Zayn did it. 

“You know where Cat lives?” Niall jogged along beside him. 

“Yeah. It’s not far from here.” Liam pointed to the next intersection. “Real close. Just down to the right and one of the flats in there.” 

Cat lived on the second floor of a brick building down a narrow side street. Liam had only been once, back when Cat first started working for them. He hadn’t been since, but he had a good sense of direction and remembered exactly where it was. 

Next to him, Niall shivered. “Forgot a jacket?” Liam asked, starting to slip his own off. 

“No, I’m fine. It’s kind of creepy down here,” Niall said, glancing up at the tightly packed buildings.

Liam couldn’t disagree. The lack of streetlights made for a rather dark walk, and they had to rely on the light filtering down to the street from windows. He reached Cat’s building and dashed up the stairs, Niall close behind. 

“Slow down, mate,” Niall’s breathless voice came, punctuated with a short laugh. “I’m not as athletic as you. Surprising, I know.” 

Liam chuckled as he neared Cat’s door. 

It was cracked open slightly. 

Niall’s uneasiness had rubbed off; somehow Liam felt he had an idea of what was going on. 

Even so, he wasn’t prepared to open the door to a body lying prone on a bloodstained carpet.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis arrives in London, and Eleanor takes him to meet his potential flatmates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh and here's the first chapter! It's sort of unedited as of now but I'll be tweaking every so often. Hope you like it! Comments are welcome and much appreciated :) xx

Faces. All I saw were faces, but I couldn’t find the one I was looking for. 

I stepped off the train at King’s Cross and stood, bags in hand, in the middle of the platform whilst people milled all around me. Where was she? 

“Eleanor?” I called timidly. Someone threw me a glance, but I still didn’t see her anywhere. 

Suddenly, someone threw their arms around me from behind. “Louis!” Eleanor Calder tackled me in a hug, nearly making me drop my suitcases. 

“Hey, El!” I greeted her with a laugh, turning around to see her. “How’ve you been?” 

Eleanor was an old family friend; we’d known each other since secondary school. She’d moved to London after completing her undergraduate studies, though, while I went on to earn a degree in medicine. At Eleanor’s suggestion, I decided to pack up and move to London as well. 

“I’ve been good. Love it here, as you know.” She smiled and flipped her wavy brown hair out of her face. “I think you’re going to love it here, too, Lou.” 

I smiled. “Yeah, I hope so. Hopefully I can find a job…and a flat that won’t cost me a fortune.” 

“No luck?” She frowned. 

I shook my head. “Not yet. I’ve got a room at a hotel for now, while I look, but I really hope I find someplace as soon as I can. Can’t stay in a hotel forever,” I joked. 

“You know, I actually know someone who’s looking for a flatmate,” she said thoughtfully. “Someone at work. A friend of mine…sort of.” 

“Oh, really?” I raised my eyebrows. “You mean they’re looking for a flat as well, or they’ve got one and are looking for someone to move in?” 

“He’s got one already. He just doesn’t have the money like he used to, and it’s harder to afford now,” Eleanor explained as we wove through the streets of London toward my hotel. “I’ll take you to meet him tomorrow.” 

She left me standing in the lobby of a tiny inn. I checked in, heaved my bags up to my room, and collapsed on the bed. The train ride had made me tired, though I didn’t really know why. I was glad Eleanor knew someone I might be able to live with. It didn’t have to be a permanent thing—maybe just until I had enough money to live on my own. Then I could move out. 

Finding a job was the second thing on my list of things to worry about. I was ready to start wherever I needed to. Now that I had a medical degree, I was hoping it was really worth as much as everyone seemed to make it out to be. 

~ 

Eleanor came by the next morning to take me to meet her friend. “Just to warn you…he can be a little strange sometimes,” she said. “Well, now you get to see where I work as well. It’s nothing big right now, just a desk job here at the laboratory, but that’s till I find a good job teaching somewhere.” 

I nodded. I knew how much Eleanor wanted to be a teacher, and I just felt bad that it was taking her so long to find work. She didn’t seem to mind the clerical work, though, chattering on about how friendly her coworkers were and how good the work environment was; that made me happy. 

She led me up several flights of stairs and down a long hallway, pausing before the very last door on the left. She knocked, and I wondered why. 

“Come in,” called a voice from inside. 

Eleanor pushed the door open. “Hi, I’ve brought—” 

“Yes, yes, come in, I said,” the voice replied impatiently, cutting her off. Sighing, she motioned for me to follow her inside. 

I found myself standing in a high-tech laboratory. Microscopes, x-ray machines, and vials full of colorful liquids covered every piece of counter space, and the shelves on the walls were laden with even more equipment. In the middle of it all was a tall, thin man in a white lab coat with dark curly hair. His face was rather sharp and angular, and he was peering intently into a microscope. 

“Uh, hello,” I ventured nervously. 

The man held out a hand in a gesture that clearly meant he wanted me to shut up. “Eleanor, thank you.” 

Flushing slightly, she nodded and backed out of the room. Puzzled, I watched her retreat and she shut the door, leaving me in the room with this man. 

A small cough sounded from somewhere in the far corner, which caught me by surprise because I’d thought it was only the two of us. 

He was wearing a long black trenchcoat with the collar turned up to his face. He had the same dark curly hair as the man sitting at the table, but his eyes were a vivid shade of green. They were the kind of eyes that made me feel like he knew more about me than I did. It wasn’t a feeling particularly liked. 

He didn’t say anything, just held my gaze for a few seconds before pulling out his phone and ignoring me. 

“Shut up. I’m thinking,” the man at the table snapped. 

I was starting to doubt Eleanor’s judgment. Which of these lads was supposed to be my potential flatmate? As it stood, I was preferring the quiet one in the corner. The one at the table was getting on my nerves, quite frankly, and we hadn’t even spoken directly. 

The second I thought that, the one at the table pushed his chair back, stretching his neck out and cracking his knuckles. “Apologies. I do hate to be interrupted when I’m thinking,” he said, not sounding very apologetic at all. “I tend to do that. I hope you don’t mind. Oh, and I play the violin when I’m thinking.” 

I could only blink. _What_? “I’m sorry, what are you talking about?” 

He looked directly at me for the first time. His light eyes were piercing, much like the lad’s in the corner, but piercing in a much more calculating way. “Potential flatmates should know the worst in each other.” 

“We’ve only just met and we’re already talking about the flat?” I couldn’t believe it. “Actually, I don’t even know if you can call it meeting each other. I’m Louis Tomlinson, by the way.” 

He completely blew me off. “Which club?” was all he had to say in reply. “Doncaster Rovers, yes?” 

“What—what club? What are you going on about?” 

“You’re a Doncaster Rovers supporter, am I correct?” 

“Well, yes, but—” 

“Pity you stopped playing yourself. Might have had a good career playing for a professional club.” 

“Where did—” 

“Your younger sisters probably miss you terribly already. Obviously you’re very close to your family.” He stood up, looking me up and down. 

How did he know that? “Now hold on a second, I—” 

“And I’m not sure what happened to you with moving to London. You’re dressing like some sort of…like you’re trying to impress someone, but you’re not as _cool_ as you think you are. Go back to the preppy little thing you were at uni. It works much better than whatever you’re going for with _this_ ,” he said, waving a hand to indicate my outfit. 

“Hey!” Frowning, I looked down at what I was wearing. Toms, jeans rolled up a bit at the ankle, my Killers t-shirt, and a denim jacket. I didn’t think I looked that bad. Eleanor surely would have told me if I did. “Alright, I have no idea who you are. How the hell do you know all of this about me?” I ran a hand through the fringe that I’d definitely _not_ spent ten minutes fussing with that morning to get it just the right shade of tousled. Hopefully he wouldn’t have anything to say about _that_. 

He only tilted his head and kept going. “Interesting. I wonder who the lucky one is. She must mean a lot to you.” 

I put my hands up before he could say any more. “Alright, _stop_. Who are you, and how do you know all this? Did Eleanor tell you?” 

“Eleanor didn’t tell me a thing about you.” The man smirked, and I had a strong desire to punch him. 

The lad standing the corner stifled a laugh, his mouth curved into a grin but his lips pressed together to keep the laugh from escaping. “Is he like this all the time?” I asked in exasperation. 

“Oh, Tomlinson, don’t be annoying.” The microscope man strode toward the door. “I need to be going now. Come along,” he added, nodding to the man in the corner. 

“Now hang on a bloody second!” I shouted. “I don’t know where this flat is. I don’t know anything about you. I don’t even know your name.” 

He stopped halfway out the door—the one from the corner had already disappeared. 

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.” With a wink, he was gone. 

~ 

Several hours later, I met up with Eleanor at the restaurant on the ground floor of my hotel. 

“Well, how did it go?” she asked me. 

I shook my head. “El, I’m sorry, but I’ve got no idea at all what to think of him.” 

“Oh, Sherlock?” She chuckled. “Yeah, he can be a bit difficult.” 

“Difficult?” Difficult was an understatement. “Are you sure you haven’t told him anything about me?” 

“No, why?” 

“Because somehow he knows that I have sisters, that I’m a Rovers supporter, and then he was going on about my _clothes_ , of all things. Something about going back to being preppy?” I snorted. “And I’ve got nothing about him. Nothing at all except his name. I’m sorry, El, but I don’t know how we’re supposed to get on. What kind of name is Sherlock, anyway?” 

She sighed. “I know. He’s always like that. It helps in his line of work, though.” 

“Being a smartass helps him in the lab?” 

“No, he works with the police service most of the time. Helps them with cases and such.” 

I considered this. Now that I knew he was a detective of some sort, everything made a lot more sense. He must have been able to tell everything he’d said about me…somehow. “I guess I’ll at least go and have a look at the flat tomorrow.” 

“Do you have his number?” 

“Of course not. He was talking the whole time.” 

Eleanor laughed. “Alright. I’ll set up a time for you, then. Tomorrow’s Friday, but he probably won’t be working. Did he at least tell you the address?” 

“Yeah, at the very end.” I sighed. “I really hope this is worth it. It’d be great to find a place right off.” 

“Good luck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Updates will be posted here: styleslock.tumblr.com  
> And my personal is here: christmasingwithlou.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis moves in, Harry tries to be welcoming, and Sherlock knows everything.

The next day saw me standing outside of 221B Baker Street waiting for Sherlock. I shoved my hands deep into my pockets, cursing myself for coming so early and the weather for making it colder than mid-September should be.  
  
It was another fifteen minutes before I saw a tall figure emerge from a cab on the other side of the street. _Finally_. Curiously, though, there was someone else with him. It was the trenchcoat-wearing lad from the corner. He glanced up at me, his piercing green eyes boring into me from across the street.

"Ah, good, you're here." Sherlock shook my hand briefly before opening the door.  
  
"Not to be rude, but…I’m sorry, who are you?" I asked, looking to the other man.  
  
“Oh, him? He’s my brother.” 

“You didn’t say that yesterday.”  
  
“It wasn’t necessary.” 

“Well, what’s he doing here?”  
  
“He lives with me,” Sherlock said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

My jaw felt like it dropped. “You didn’t say anything at all about anyone else living with you!”  
  
"Oh, don’t worry, he’s not a bother,” Sherlock said offhandedly, letting himself inside.  
  
Not seeing any more explanation forthcoming, I turned to his apparent brother. "I just realized I never got your name yesterday. I'm Louis Tomlinson," I said to him.  
  
His voice, tinged with a Cheshire accent, was relaxed and raspy, the opposite of Sherlock's. "I'm Harry. Harry Styles." 

 _Harry Styles_ , I repeated to myself as I shook his hand. He had rather large hands—though for all I knew they were normal-sized; my hands were already on the small side. A gift for my profession, as I’d been told. 

“Nice to meet you,” Harry said, smiling for the first time. “How do you know Sherlock?” 

“Do you know Eleanor Calder?” I asked. Harry nodded. “I knew her from uni. She put me in touch with Sherlock.” 

Harry laughed for some reason. “Why would she do that to you?” 

“I told her I was looking for a flatmate.” I cocked my head. “Sorry, but I wasn’t expecting you to be living here as well.” As soon as I said it, I slapped my hand over my mouth. “Oh, damn. That came out wrong. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s alright,” Harry said with a shrug. “No one really knows about me at all.” 

“Harold! Tomlinson! Are you coming?” Sherlock’s voice called from inside. 

“Coming!” Hastily, I stepped inside, Harry right behind me. 

“I hate when he calls me Harold,” Harry muttered, making me chuckle. “It’s not even my name. I’m pretty sure he just does it to be annoying.” 

“Where’s the Styles come from?” 

“I was adopted when I was six,” he told me as we ascended the stairs to the first floor. “Kept my last name. Plus, Harry Holmes kind of sounds weird anyways.” 

Harry opened the door to a spacious-looking living area with two large windows directly across from the door. Couches and tables were placed around the space, and there was a fireplace on the left side of the room. The desk and coffee table were littered with books, papers, and various electronics. It seemed like a fairly normal flat, except for the random yellow smiley face painted on the wall above one of the couches. 

Sherlock was standing in the centre of the room, talking to an elderly woman who sort of looked like my nan. She looked toward me with a smile on her face. “Oh, Sherlock, is this him?” She bustled over to me to shake my hand. “I’m Mrs. Hudson, the landlady.” 

“Louis Tomlinson. Pleased to meet you,” I said with a smile. 

“I’m sure Sherlock will have you all moved in, I’m sure.” She patted me on the shoulder and headed down the stairs. 

I glanced round the flat. “Nice place you’ve got here.” 

Sherlock ignored me, busy rifling through some papers on the desk. “I’ll show you around,” Harry offered, stepping past Sherlock. “There’s the kitchen, in there,” he said, leading me past the fireplace and pointing into another room. It looked like any other kitchen except for the mass of laboratory equipment on the table. “Sorry. Sherlock keeps all his stuff on the table.” 

“Looks fine to me. I’m not the greatest cook, so anything works for me,” I said with a laugh. 

“Oh, I love cooking. I get mad sometimes ‘cause Sherlock keeps weird things in the fridge.” 

“I don’t mind weird food.” 

“It’s not food. Usually it’s human body parts,” Harry mentioned casually, as if he’d said “carrots” instead of “body parts.” 

“I’m sorry, _what_?” I liked Harry, but I still wasn’t all that sure about Sherlock. What kind of person kept body parts in his home fridge? 

I followed Harry upstairs to the second floor, where we emerged in a narrow hallway. “So Sherlock’s room is that way,” Harry said, pointing down one side of the hall, “and mine’s the other direction. Oh, wait a second. Damn,” Harry growled, dashing back down the stairs. Confused, I followed him. 

“Sherlock! Why’d you tell him he could live with us?” 

At that, my hopes sank. I had a feeling finding a flat on my first day in London was too good to be true. And it was sad, because I really liked the place. 

“Why not?” Sherlock glanced at Harry, his brow quirked sardonically. “We don’t have the money we used to have, since you lost your job.” 

“It’s not my fault.” Harry pouted. 

“I never said it was.” Sherlock tilted his head. “What’s the matter?” 

“We’ve only got two bedrooms.” 

“Oh, that.” Sherlock flicked his chin at me. “You can move in with Harold. He won’t mind.” 

As much as I liked the flat, I definitely wasn’t about to intrude on the poor lad’s space for it. “No, no, I can just…sleep on the couch down here. I’m fine. I’ll get a mattress and put it here. It’s really not a problem.” 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Nonsense. That’s just silly.” 

“It’s okay. I’ve got two beds in my room, anyway,” Harry added. “Don’t know why, but I guess it’s coming in handy now.” 

I looked from Harry to Sherlock, then back to Harry. “I really don’t want to intrude,” I said uneasily. “I can…I can find somewhere else.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t mind at all.” Harry smiled at me. “It gets lonely sometimes.” 

“Lonely, really?” 

Harry shrugged. “Yeah. Sherlock’s gone a lot. Busy and stuff.” 

“Shit!” Sherlock exclaimed out of nowhere, grabbing a coat and scarf and dashing out the door. 

“And there you have it.” Harry laughed. “See? Just like I said. Always gone.” 

“Where’d he go?” 

“No idea,” Harry replied. “Probably off working on some case or another. I can’t remember how many cases he’s got at the moment.” 

“What exactly does he do?” I asked, sitting on the end of the couch closest to the window.

“He calls himself a consulting detective. That is, people come to him and ask him to investigate stuff for them, pretty much,” Harry explained, taking a seat as well. Though the sofa was large enough for three, he chose the seat directly next to me. Not that I minded. “But that’s not all. Also does some stuff for the police department. They hate him ‘cause he’s so smart, but they need him so much. He can tell so much about you without you even having to say a thing.” He chuckled. “As you already know.” 

“Oh, do I.” I rolled my eyes. “That’s crazy. How does he do that?” 

“You do it often enough, you can learn. Growing up with him, I can read people nearly as well.” Harry’s eyes looked me up and down, the warmth suddenly replaced by cool surveillance. 

“What…what are you doing?” I raised an eyebrow. 

“Trying to see if Sherlock missed anything. Yeah, I can see where he got all that from yesterday.” He paused. “Don’t quite know what he was saying about your look not working for you, though. I think it’s quite nice.” 

Well, that was flattering. The right half of my mouth turned up in a sort of smile. “Thanks.” Despite Sherlock’s obvious distaste for my style, I’d dressed in a similar fashion that morning, the only change being a Vans shirt instead of The Killers. “Anything he missed?” 

“Hmm.” It was sort of uncomfortable, knowing he was analysing me so closely. I wondered briefly what was going through his mind. “I think he was pretty spot-on. 

I shook my head, still amazed. “Alright, are you going to tell me how he knew all that?”

“I think it’d be best to hear it from him,” Harry said with a smirk. 

“You know, Harry,” I said after a brief silence, “I do kind of feel bad about just moving into your room. I really don’t mind getting a mattress and sleeping down here. I can just stay here until I find a good job and make enough money to live somewhere on my own.” 

“Oh.” Was it just me, or did Harry look disappointed? “I thought you wanted to stay.” 

“Well, yeah, for a while at least. If you don’t mind.” 

“No, no, I don’t. Mind, that is. Like I said, it gets lonely. Sometimes I go with him when he’s working on cases, and I work at the café under here as well, but other than that, it’s just me sitting here by myself, pretty much.” He smiled sadly, and I felt a stab of sympathy. It couldn’t be easy for the poor lad. 

“Sherlock and I talked once about me being a consulting detective as well,” Harry went on, pensive now. “It was after I lost my job at the British Museum. Pity, that was, ‘cause it paid pretty well. Said we could work together and figure out how to split the money. I thought maybe I could just work separately, but he said it’d be silly to have two separate consulting detectives working out of the same flat. Too confusing. So I just took a job at the café.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Good luck finding a job at the hospital.” 

“What—when did I tell you what kind of job I was looking for?” I stared at Harry, dumbstruck. “There you go, doing your…your knowing everything about me thing.” 

Harry laughed. It seemed strange to me how quickly he could go from calculating to pensive to happy. It was so different from Sherlock’s seemingly permanent coldness. “This one’s easy. You’ve got a Leeds Medical School pin on your jacket right there,” he said, pointing to my breast pocket. 

“Oh.” I felt sheepish. “Okay, that’s less weird, then.” 

Sherlock burst in the door just then, yanking his scarf off and muttering something about tea. “Harold! Did you make me my coffee?” 

“You never asked for coffee,” Harry replied patiently. 

“I didn’t?” Sherlock looked genuinely confused. “Oh. Well then. Black, two sugars.” 

Harry sighed but rose off the couch to do as his brother asked. 

Sherlock sat on my other side. “So. When are you moving in?” 

“Uh, whenever, I guess.” I shifted uneasily. Something about Sherlock was…not exactly off-putting, but it was difficult to feel relaxed around him. He gave off an aura of constant energy, of perpetual agitation. 

“That’s not helpful. When? I need to know so I can make room on the bookcase.” 

“Well, when’s best for you?” 

Sherlock leaned back, pressing his palms together just beneath his chin. “Your hotel isn’t far from here. Maybe a fifteen-minute cab ride at most. It should take you about ten minutes to gather your possessions, and then another fifteen minutes to get back here. So why don’t we say in an hour? That is”—he glanced at his wristwatch—“half two.” 

I blinked. “You did that—that thing again. How do you know where I’m staying? And while we’re at it, how did you know everything you said about me yesterday?” 

“The hotel was obvious. Your room key is sticking out of your pocket,” he said, pointing to my pocket, “and it’s got the hotel’s name on it. You’re obviously from Yorkshire, which is apparent enough from your accent, and yesterday you had a red and white lanyard in your pocket as well. It had stripes, so it probably wasn’t for Barnsley. The only other option was Doncaster. I can tell by the way you stand and the shape of the muscles in your legs, your calves especially, that you used to be a footballer, but it’s clear you haven’t played as much as you used to when you were younger. 

“You’ve four handmade bracelets on your wrist, none of which you would ever be making unless you had sisters. Each one has a different pattern and the knots are all tied differently, suggesting they were made by four different people. Oh, and they had to be younger because if your sisters were any older, they wouldn’t be making you bracelets. 

“When you were fixing your hair, your sleeve rode up and I saw the rope tattoo around your wrist. It’s broken, which made me think it represents either someone you used to love who left you or someone you love now who’s probably got some sort of tattoo to match, to complete it. I decided it was the latter, because—well, look at you. Young, just out of university—you’ve got appeal, though you didn’t always dress that way.” 

Sherlock said all this without a hint of a pause. I had no idea how to respond. He was completely right—almost. 

I heard a soft snort and looked past Sherlock to see Harry sitting on the couch behind him. I hadn’t even noticed the boy return. “Told you it’d be best to hear it from him,” Harry said with a chuckle. 

“Was I correct?” Sherlock inquired. “Did I miss anything?” 

There was one thing he’d gotten wrong, which I found strange. Even his reasoning didn’t make much sense to me. “You were wrong about a girlfriend,” I said, not without a touch of smugness. So he wasn’t _all_ he thought he was. It was probably unfair for me to think that way, given how right he was about everything else, but it was the crack in the seemingly impenetrable machine-like façade. 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, looking very confused. “Oh?” 

“I haven’t got one at all.” I shrugged. “It’s just a tattoo. They don’t really have that much meaning, any of them.” I pushed the right sleeve up, exposing the constellation of tattoos that covered my forearm. A compass, a winning knots-and-crosses game, a cup of tea, a stickman on a skateboard. 

“Wow,” Harry muttered. “Those are cool.” 

Sherlock was less impressed, instead taking my wrist with an iron grip and turning my arm all around, looking at my tattoos. “You’re an interesting one, Tomlinson.” He let go of me but didn’t take his eyes away. 

“One last thing. What in hell were you going on about with my clothes?” I demanded. 

“Oh. I saw some photos of you on Eleanor’s desk. You were wearing button-ups and braces and oxfords and all that.” He took a sip of his coffee. “So now that’s established. Why don’t we say three o’clock, now, since we’ve wasted some time?” 

“Three o’clock for what?” Harry wanted to know. 

“Tomlinson’s moving in. Might want to go clean your room, Harold.” 

“I guess I’m moving in,” I said with a brief laugh, standing up and tugging my sleeve back down. “I’ll be back at three, then.” 

~ 

An hour later, I was sitting in the middle of Harry’s room—our room, now—with both suitcases open and my things scattered all around the room. 

Harry darted around the room, straightening the books on his desk and pushing his clothes aside to make room for mine in the closet. 

“I didn’t bring all that much,” I told him as he tried to squash all of his shirts into one drawer. “Don’t drive yourself mad.” 

Harry pursed his lips. “You need somewhere to put your stuff, don’t you?” 

“Don’t worry yourself over it.” I laughed. “It’s fine.” Once I’d finished shoving my clothes into the empty drawers, I collapsed on one of the beds. It was quite springy and very comfortable, and reminded me an awful lot of my mattress back home. 

“So you’re a Rovers supporter, then?” Harry asked out of the blue. 

“Yeah, I am.” I cast him a look. “Don’t for the love of God tell me you’re a Rotherham fan. Anything but. Otherwise, I’m afraid I’m going to have to pack up and move out.” 

Harry chuckled. “I don’t really follow the Championship. I’m a Man U supporter myself.” 

“Aw yes, brilliant!” I shouted, sitting up to give the lad a high-five. “They’re my favourite in the Premier League.” 

“Right? They’re doing amazing this year!” 

As we lay around and chatted about football, I found that I was warming up to Harry very quickly. He was so different from Sherlock—friendly, amiable, personable, easy to talk to. Even though he’d demonstrated that he too could read people as easily as Sherlock, it was so easy to be around Harry, and I was glad for that. After all, we’d be sharing a room. And I found myself thinking, somewhere in the back of my mind, that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I really did decide to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for convenient second beds and the lack of a third bedroom at 221B :D Progress updates will be posted on the blog as always!


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis' not sure what exactly he's being dragged into, but he doesn't put up a fight.

I woke up the next morning and, for a few groggy seconds, I forgot where I was. I didn’t recognize the beige ceiling or the deep green walls—the hotel’s rooms were rather yellowish in colour—and I was pretty sure the hotel’s windows didn’t let in nearly as much light as was in the room at the moment. It wasn’t until I glanced over toward the night table and saw the other bed that I remembered. I was in the second bedroom of 221B Baker Street, my new home. I kicked the covers off and trudged to the toilet. Harry was still asleep. 

By the time I came out half an hour later, my face washed, teeth brushed, and fringe combed, Harry had done nothing but roll over. 

“Hey, Harry,” I called. “Time to get up.” 

“No,” came his muffled voice. “Don’t wanna. Too early.” 

I looked at the digital clock on the table. “Harry, it’s almost nine o’clock in the morning.” 

“Too early,” he insisted. 

“Fine. I’m going to make myself a cuppa.” I dug through the one bag I still hadn’t unpacked, pulling out my box of Yorkshire tea from home. No matter where I went, I couldn’t leave home without my tea. I didn’t trust that there would be some wherever I went—I didn’t want to leave that to chance. Hopefully I’d find a place nearby that sold my favourite kind. I left the room, shutting the door behind me. 

Sherlock was already downstairs, sitting on the sofa reading the newspaper. “Good morning, Tomlinson,” he said without lowering the newspaper to look at me. 

“How’d you know it was me? Oh, wait, don’t tell me,” I answered myself, “it was something about the sound of my footsteps when I came down the stairs.” 

Sherlock lowered the paper suddenly, an odd look on his face. “Yes…exactly,” he said with what just might have been a touch of surprise. “You walk lighter because you’re smaller. You’re catching on very quickly.” 

 _Oh_. I was just being my usual sassy self. I didn’t expect to actually be _right_. “Well then,” I said, trying not to gloat, “I just came down to make a cuppa. Do you want any?” 

“English Breakfast. Second cabinet on the right. Milk and sugar. Thank you.” 

Already I was starting to get accustomed to Sherlock’s clipped sentences and bossy speech, and the more I thought about it I realised he was probably just so used to having Harry do things for him that he just spoke to everyone like that. It didn’t particularly make me like him any more, but it was easier to understand him now that I had a reason. 

“Alright, then.” As I set the kettle on the stove to heat the water, I heard a set of footsteps descending the stairs. 

“Harry, you’re the loudest walker I have ever met,” I shouted from the kitchen to tease him. 

“Shut up, Louis,” Harry grumbled, shaking his curly hair out as he walked into the kitchen in nothing but a pair of boxers. Curiously, his arms and chest housed a rather impressive collection of tattoos. A butterfly and two birds were etched on his chest, and his left arm was home to the most random tattoos I’d ever seen. A coat hanger, a heart, a ship, random letters. 

“You’re nearly naked,” was all I could think to say. I guessed this was a normal occurrence in the Holmes-Styles household, but I was completely taken aback. 

Harry shrugged, a sleepy sort of grin still on his face. “Yeah. I don’t really sleep with much on.” 

“Tomlinson, he’s always walking around like that,” Sherlock offered from his spot on the couch. 

“Please, just call me Louis,” I said. “Want tea, Harry?” 

“Sure. English Breakfast for me. Milk, no sugar.” 

“Your orders will be out momentarily,” I said, as though I were working at a restaurant. “Don’t forget to tip.” 

As I turned my back, out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw Harry crack a smile. _Good, so at least one person in this flat will appreciate my sense of humour,_ I thought to myself. So I let myself whistle as I worked. I half expected Harry or Sherlock to tell me where the teacups were as I padded about the kitchen looking for them, but neither of them said a word. I finally found them in the cupboard just above the refrigerator. 

Just as I was bringing Sherlock his tea, his mobile phone buzzed. “Tomlinson, can you get that?” he asked offhandedly. 

“ _Louis,_ ” I corrected him with a raised eyebrow. “But really, answer your phone? I feel like I’d be invading your privacy.” 

“Oh please, we live together. Anyway, it can’t be that important.” Sherlock folded his paper and tossed it into a stack on the desk. “It’s probably that woman who came in last week whose case I wouldn’t take.” 

“Why wouldn’t you take it?” I asked, picking up his phone. 

“Boring.” Sherlock dismissed the thought with a flick of his wrist. “What does it say?” 

“Uh, it says it’s from…DI Lestrade?” I frowned, not recognising the name. 

Sherlock looked marginally less bored. “And?” He took a sip of his tea. 

“He wants you to come down to the station. Right now.” 

“Did he say why?” 

“No.” I picked up my own cup, grabbed a pen from the table, and stirred my tea with it. 

Sherlock made an irritated little noise. “Don’t respond. We’ll know it’s important if he comes by.” 

Harry, meanwhile, was giving me strange looks. “You stir your tea with a pen?” he asked, looking utterly confused. 

I tilted my head. “Yeah. It’s kind of weird, I know, but I’ve gotten used to it.” 

“You stir your tea with a pen,” he repeated, shaking his head with a small grin on his face. “You _are_ an interesting one, Lou.” 

I felt a twinge of something at the use of my nickname. I hadn’t even told Harry about it, and wondered if he knew or if he just assumed it. 

About an hour later, after we’d eaten a small breakfast and were relaxing in the living room, there came a harsh, insistent knock on the door. “Sherlock, open up, please,” called an exasperated-sounding voice. 

As Sherlock groaned and stood to answer the door, Harry raised his eyebrows. “Guess it really was important. Lestrade’s here.” 

“The one who texted Sherlock earlier? Who is he?” 

“Yeah. He’s the detective inspector. He’s the one that usually comes to Sherlock when the police need help,” Harry explained while a grey-haired man entered the flat. He wasn’t thin, but he wasn’t large either—he had sharp brown eyes, large nose, and a mouth set in a straight line. 

“Sherlock, why didn’t you answer my text?” he demanded. 

Sherlock only responded, “I would have if I knew it was important enough for you to come to my flat. Is it a new case? This had better be interesting.” 

Lestrade sighed and, instead of answering right away, looked to Harry and me. “Morning, Harry. Well, who’s our guest?” 

“My name’s Louis Tomlinson,” I said, standing up to shake his hand quickly. “Just moved in.” 

“With this one?” Lestrade pointed to Sherlock. “Good luck. Anyway,” he said, turning back to Sherlock, “we think you’ll find this one quite interesting.” 

“Where is it?” Sherlock had turned around and was looking out the window. 

“Down in Soho. Young woman found dead in her flat. Looks suspicious.” 

“What doesn’t?” Sherlock sat down in one of the large comfy chairs near the fireplace, his hands pressed together the same way they’d been when he was analysing me the day before. I wondered if it was his thinking pose or something. 

“There’s also the matter of who came and reported it to us.” Lestrade paused, probably trying for a dramatic effect. “It was Zayn Malik.” 

Sherlock’s eyes, which had been half-closed just seconds before, flew open and he sat forward. “Now this is getting interesting.” 

“Zayn Malik?” Harry asked, bewildered. “Why would he come to you?” 

“That’s the interesting part, Harold!” 

“Who’s Zayn Malik?” I cut in, starting to feel miffed that I wasn’t in on whatever this was. 

“We had some trouble with Zayn a little over two years ago. Suspected drug possession and all that, but we couldn’t prove it, so he went free,” Lestrade told me, a bitter edge in his voice. “So why he’d even think of showing up to us, even if it is to report a murder, is quite fishy if you ask me.” 

“Yes, exactly, and that is what makes it interesting.” Sherlock stood up and grabbed his coat. “Let’s go.” 

“Can I come, too?” Harry asked. 

“Fine, whatever,” Lestrade agreed, though he didn’t seem to care much either way. “And you, Tomlinson?” he added, looking at me. 

“Oh—” I looked at the three of them. “I wouldn’t be any help.” 

“Don’t be silly, you’ve got a medical degree,” Harry reminded me. “He can come along, can’t he?” 

I wasn’t exactly sure if Lestrade actually agreed or if Harry just pushed me out the door, but somehow I found myself sitting in the back of a police car between Sherlock and Harry on the way to the station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading! xx


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis wasn't sure what he should have expected going into a crime scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry it's been so long since the last update...Christmas and exams and such. Here's the next chapter, I'm going to try to update weekly from now on to keep myself writing. This is unedited so...whooo for quality.

Sherlock spent the car ride muttering to himself. 

“How do you stand it?” I muttered to Harry, hoping that maybe Sherlock wouldn’t hear me. 

He did. “Shut up, Tomlinson.” 

“Louis, just call me Louis!” I snapped back without thinking. 

“Either way, I’d like it if you shut up.” He stared out the window, still talking to himself under his breath. 

On my other side, Harry just stared down at his hands. I got the sense he was used to this sort of behaviour. Lestrade, too, said nothing, probably for the same reason. 

It was slightly uncomfortable, to say the least. Bored, I played a few rounds of Candy Crush Saga on my phone and checked Twitter. Nothing happening, as usual, just random things from celebrities I followed. 

When we arrived at the station, Lestrade let us out and led us through the maze of corridors inside the building. I tried not to stare, but it was impossible. I’d never seen such a huge complex with so many people all flitting about like individual bees, each with their own agenda but all working toward the same thing. 

“Wait, why are we here? I thought we were going to the crime scene?” Harry said as we crowded into the elevator. 

“Got to pick up Zayn first,” Lestrade explained. “He’s been here since this morning. Reported it last night but most of our people, including me, were out. If I’d have known I’d have called you sooner.” 

“Is there anyone else with him?” 

Lestrade nodded, walking out of the elevator and down the hallway. “Strange lot. I don’t know the others,” he said, throwing open a door on the left. 

The room was plain, with several chairs set up around a large square table in the centre of the room. Three lads who couldn’t have been older than me sat along one side. The one on the left had blond hair with bits of brown at the roots, and was biting at his fingernails nervously. The one in the middle was adjusting his button-up, his brown hair combed into a neat quiff. Somehow I could tell the last one was the infamous Zayn Malik. 

His black hair was messy on his forehead, and his dark hazel eyes appeared hooded, like he was hiding a whole host of secrets. His mouth was set in a line as he stared straight ahead. 

The blond looked up. “Hello.” 

“Lads,” Lestrade said to the three sitting at the table, “this is Sherlock, Harry, and Louis. They’ll be helping us with the investigation. Treat them with the same respect you’d treat any officer.” 

I shot a glance to Lestrade. He thought I was going to help with the actual investigation? I had figured I was just tagging along for the sake of it. “Wait, no, I’m just here,” I said quickly. “M’not really working on the case.” 

“Didn’t we establish that your education would be of help?” Sherlock turned to me and arched an eyebrow. 

“Well, yes, but—” 

“Then you’ll be helping us. We need all the help we can get.” Lestrade added that last bit. I could tell he knew it was true but hated to admit it. “Why don’t you introduce yourselves, boys?” 

The three of them stood up. The blond spoke up first. “Niall Horan,” he said, sticking out his hand for a quick round of handshakes. I thought I detected a hint of an Irish accent. 

The one in the middle introduced himself as Liam Payne, which confirmed my guess as to which one was Zayn. 

“Zayn Malik,” he said, keeping both hands shoved firmly in his pockets. He didn’t offer his hand until Liam elbowed him. 

Harry was the only one of us who greeted the three. “Pleased to meet you,” he said with a friendly smile, his green eyes studying each of them one at a time. 

“So.” Lestrade took a seat across from Niall, Liam, and Zayn. “Start from the beginning.” 

“No. I want to go straight to the scene. Never trust eyewitness accounts, Lestrade, I thought you knew that.” Sherlock was already halfway out the door, clucking his tongue in disapproval. 

Lestrade sighed. “Yes, Sherlock, I do know that.” But he signalled for the three to get up and follow, mumbling something about pretentious private detectives on the way out. 

Lestrade went with Liam, Niall, and Zayn in one police car while Harry, Sherlock, and I took a separate vehicle. Driving our car was a youngish man with tall black hair and a bit of a beard. 

Sherlock shifted forward. “Grimshaw.” 

The man sighed. “Sherly, don’t call me Grimshaw.” 

“Don’t call me Sherly.” 

I turned to Harry and raised an eyebrow in a silent question. 

“He’s Nick Grimshaw,” Harry whispered to me. “He and Sherlock don’t get along all that well. Nick’s always getting in the way. At least that’s what Sherlock thinks. He really does try to help, but…well, you know how Sherlock is. He hates it when it’s not one hundred per cent him all the time.” 

“Shut up, Harold,” Sherlock snapped, as though on cue, while Nick tore after Lestrade’s car at an alarming speed. 

Before long, Nick pulled down an empty side street. Lestrade and the three lads were already getting out of their car. 

“So, then,” Sherlock said, his long coat blowing out behind him in the breeze as he strode over to Liam, Niall, and Zayn. “When exactly did you find the body?” 

“Last night, around nine o’clock,” Liam answered. 

“How?” 

“We…well, we walked in and saw the body. I don’t know how else we would have found it.” 

“Was the door open?” 

“Yeah, cracked open a bit,” Niall contributed. Yeah, he definitely had an Irish accent. I wondered how he got to be in London. 

“What I meant was, how did you stumble across it? Did you know her?” Sherlock pressed. Liam nodded. “What was her name?” 

“Cat Pembroke. Well, her real name’s Catherine, but nobody calls her that. She works for us.” 

“What do you lot do?” 

“We own a little bakery,” Liam explained. “Well, Zayn and I do. Down a couple of streets. She works the night shift and she didn’t come in, so Niall and I got worried and went looking for her and…well, we found her, all right.” He quirked his mouth into a nervous smile. 

“Bit of a shock for both of us.” Niall shivered slightly. 

Zayn looked highly uncomfortable, and I knew why. Not only was the situation in itself somewhat nerve-wracking, I could only imagine what it must be like to be facing the same people who almost busted you for drug possession, even if it was two years ago. “When Niall and Liam didn’t come back for a half an hour, I called Liam’s phone. He told me to—to close up the shop early and come down. I did, and we saw this, and Niall cried—” 

“I did not!” the blond protested. 

“Shut up, Nialler,” Zayn barked, not unkindly. “We had no idea what happened. We came right over but there weren’t many people here.” 

“Yes, yes, that part we know,” Lestrade interrupted impatiently. 

“You didn’t touch anything, did you?” Sherlock asked. 

“Course not. Why would we?” Liam furrowed his brow. “Well, except the door, ‘cause we pushed the door open. But nothing else.” 

“Just checking, of course. Well then, show us the way.” 

Liam led us to a run-down building that must have been lovely in its time—if it ever had one. We followed him up a narrow staircase to a flat on the second floor, where a team of people, presumably from the police, had tables set up in the hallway with equipment and the like. 

“Here, put these on,” Sherlock said, handing each of us blue plastic suits to put on over our clothes. I guessed they kept us from contaminating the crime scene. 

Niall didn’t take one. “Well, you’ve all probably seen stuff like this, but I…I don’t think I can,” he said, his voice hitching. I felt for him—I remembered that same apprehensive feeling before seeing my first cadaver in medical school. 

“Then stay out here,” Sherlock said, retracting his arm. “Obviously.” 

Niall looked wounded, so I patted his shoulder. “It’s alright. I understand. Just stay here, yeah? We should be out in a bit.” 

He smiled hesitantly. “Okay.” 

“Niall, I’ll stay out here with you,” Zayn offered, shucking off his suit. The Irish lad relaxed visibly, the tension leaving his shoulders. 

“Tomlinson! Come in!” Sherlock’s voice shouted from inside the flat. 

I huffed, zipping up my suit. “He’ll never call me Louis, will he?” 

Harry laughed. “On the day he stops calling me Harold, perhaps.” 

I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but either way I couldn’t help the feeling of horror that came over me when I entered the flat. 

The flat was chaos. The table was flipped over, photo frames lay smashed on the ground, and green shards of broken glass littered the floor. “Careful,” I said, half to myself as I stepped forward slowly. The place stank of alcohol and a strange metallic smell that I realised chillingly was blood. 

In the centre of it all was the figure of a petite woman lying facedown on the carpet in the middle of the room. Dried blood stained the rug, and her dark hair was splayed over her face so I couldn’t see her features. 

“Oh, God,” I breathed, not even bothering to try to keep the shock off my face. “Harry…” 

I glanced over to him. He stood next to Sherlock, and for a second they looked eerily similar. Both wore the same look of analytic impassivity. Two sets of eyes, pale blue and bright green, studied the body on the floor. 

“Tomlinson.” Sherlock nodded to the body on the floor. “Well then, go on.” 

“Oh. Um, alright then.” I cleared my throat, snapping on a pair of rubber gloves that someone handed to me. This wasn’t exactly how I’d imagined my real-world knowledge of what I’d learned in medical school would first be put to the test. I remembered hoping to God that my first year out of school wouldn’t be spent stuck at a desk filing papers. Looking back, I probably should have been careful what I wished for. 

I brushed the girl’s hair away from her face. Oh, she couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. Her features were soft, with a small nose and round cheeks. Studs lined the edges of her ears, and her lips were a dull shade of crimson. She’d probably just put on lipstick before this happened. 

I took a deep breath. _Alright, Lou, this is what you’ve been studying for. Time to prove yourself._ Painfully aware of everyone else watching me, I carefully turned her body over. Her short red dress was nearly the same colour of the sanguine stains covering her body. A quick glance told me the main wounds were around her chest. The space below her collarbones was streaked with stab and cut wounds. Some were small but deep, while others had a paper cut-like shape. 

“Oh, Jesus,” Liam’s voice muttered behind me while someone else sucked in a huge breath. “Wow. That looks…doesn’t look good.” 

“Not at all.” I was only halfway listening as I ran my fingers over the wounds. “Lots of cuts, but only some are deep. I’d say it looks like she might have died of blood loss unless her lungs were punctured. I’d have to take a closer look.” I glanced up at Sherlock, then at Lestrade. 

“Thank you.” Sherlock turned to the rest of the team. “Can I have a moment?” 

Lestrade sighed. “Five minutes. Zayn, Liam, Louis, come on.” 

“Tomlinson can stay,” Sherlock argued. 

“Alright, then stay.” Everyone filtered out the room, leaving only Harry, Sherlock, and me. 

Once they shut the door Sherlock began pacing around the room like a madman. “We need to find out more about this woman. If Zayn Malik is really running a bakery then I’m an amateur.” 

I raised an eyebrow but drifted over to the kitchen table. Several paper plates and beer bottles in various states of emptiness were scattered over its surface, but what caught my eye was an open notebook and a pen. Curious, I picked up the book. 

It appeared to be a datebook of some sort. Times and places were written down in careful, bubbly handwriting, and in the margins were random numbers. “Sherlock, you might want to see this.” 

Harry came over instead, standing directly behind me. “What is it, Lou?” 

There he was going again with the nickname. The way he looked over my shoulder nearly put his chin on my shoulder, and for the first time I realised how much taller he was compared to me. I cleared my throat. “Looks like a datebook,” I said, handing it to him. 

His face turned serious as he flipped through the pages. “What are all these appointments?”

“My thoughts exactly. She must work somewhere else other than the bakery.” 

“The bakery’s got to be a front for something. I don’t know what Zayn Malik is doing running a bakery, but that can’t be all there is,” Sherlock interrupted, striding over and plucking the book from Harry’s hands. “Hmm.” 

“Got any ideas?” I asked. 

“Six,” he said after a pause. “You two go see where her bedroom is.” 

I shrugged, figuring Sherlock knew what he was doing. I wandered through the cramped kitchen to a closed door that led into her bedroom. 

It was a plain room, void of decoration except for a colourful pink quilt on the bed. Lying on the nightstand was her mobile phone. Excited, I snatched it and switched it on. Fortunately it unlocked without requiring a passcode. 

“Sherlock! It’s been five minutes!” Lestrade’s voice echoed through the silence of the flat. 

“Coming!” Harry and Sherlock shouted at the same time. “Take that,” he said to me. “But don’t give it to Lestrade. Sherlock’ll want to look at it first.” 

On the way out, Sherlock was muttering again. I caught some things about “find her co-workers” and “what Niall’s doing in London.” 

After I removed the blue suit and handed it back to Lestrade, I noticed Niall standing alone. The poor lad still looked like a scared squirrel. “Hey,” I said, walking over to him, “how are you doing? I know it’s a lot, and it can be kind of scary.” 

He managed a smile, but it looked forced. “Doing alright. It’s just…wow. You go to check on a friend and you don’t expect to see her dead, you know?” He emitted a bark of humourless laughter. 

“Yeah, I know. We’ll figure this out, yeah?” I thumped him on the back. “You lads ever need anything, we’ll be working on the case, I’m sure. Lestrade’ll help you.” 

“Oh…what about you and the other two?” Niall pointed to Sherlock and Harry. 

“Yeah, we’ll be working on it, too. We’ll probably see you.” I gave him what I hoped was an encouraging smile before turning and running after Harry and Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading xx
> 
> Tumblr: [styleslock](http://styleslock.tumblr.com)


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock shuts himself in his room, Harry has a theory, and Louis thinks he wants to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking so long to update! This chapter's mostly just fluff, I'm sorry, but it's building up to some new developments in the case in later chapters! Thank you for reading :) x

The ride back to the police station was less uncomfortable than I expected. Sherlock was staring out the window moving his lips soundlessly, and Harry just kept on messing with his hair. Each time he ran a hand through his curls he came close to elbowing me in the face, and I was ready to tell him off. 

Sherlock beat me to it, though. “Harold, stop that. It’s distracting,” he said without so much as a glance in Harry’s direction. “Your hair looks fine. I wish you’d stop worrying about it. You’ve been doing it more than usual these past two days.” 

Harry flushed and slumped down in his seat. In his position, the collar of his trenchcoat nearly hid his face completely. 

The rest of the group was already at the station when we arrived. Remembering what Harry had told me, I pocketed Cat’s mobile phone. Sherlock mentioned finding the datebook, but refused to hand it in until he’d had a look at it first. 

“You can come in tomorrow and look at it all you want,” Lestrade argued, but I could tell from his tired tone of voice that he knew he had already lost the argument. 

“I’ll look at it tonight and bring it in again tomorrow.” With that, Sherlock shoved the datebook into an inside pocket. “Gentlemen, is the bakery open on Sundays?” 

“No,” Zayn said quickly. “Why?” 

“Fine. Then we’ll stop by on Monday.” Sherlock glanced around at the three lads, then turned on his heel and stalked out of the room without so much as a “good day.” 

“Um, sorry about him,” Harry apologised, looking sheepish. “He just takes off like that…well, we’ll be back here tomorrow, and in the bakery Monday. Yeah?” 

Zayn and Liam nodded. Niall was still wearing the same expression of uneasiness. I really felt bad for him. No one should have to walk in and see their friend dead like that. But before I could dwell any more, Harry had his hand around my wrist and was pulling me after Sherlock. 

Back at the flat, I pulled the phone from my pocket and dropped it on the table next to the datebook. “Alright, Sherlock. You said you have six ideas. Mind sharing any of them?” 

To my surprise, Harry spoke up first. “Prostitute,” was all he said. 

I wasn’t sure which was more surprising, the fact that Harry jumped in before Sherlock did, or that he’d reached such a solid conclusion already. I hadn’t seen either one coming. Admittedly, I had no idea where to begin myself, so anything would have come as a surprise. “How do you figure that?” 

Sherlock took over from there. “Really, Tomlinson, don’t tell me you weren’t thinking the same thing.” I wasn’t, but I had no intention of telling him that. “The signs were everywhere. They said she’d been late for work. You don’t wear a dress of that style to work at a bakery. It was short, red, tight, low-cut. She’d put on a good deal of makeup as well not long before she died. Tell me who dresses up like _that_ to go sell cupcakes. 

“And then we’ve got the datebook. Appointments, probably with clients. There are numbers on the side and it looks like she was adding. Shot in the dark, but I’m willing to bet those are totals, what she’s earned. 

“And from there it’s only logical to assume Liam and Zayn are in charge of this brothel, and Niall is one of them as well.” Sherlock finished his explanation and sat down at the table. “I had a feeling Zayn Malik wasn’t going to go away. Drugs and now this.” 

“What do we know about Zayn, other than the thing from two years ago with the drugs?” I asked, setting the kettle on the stove to make another cuppa. 

“Very little, unfortunately. All we know is that he’s originally from Bradford, is twenty-three, and never went to university.” 

I furrowed my brow, wondering why he’d want to get so involved in illegal activities. I knew prostitution itself wasn’t illegal in London, but running a brothel sure was. He probably figured there weren’t many good jobs out there for someone without a university degree. “And what about Liam and Niall?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “Brand new. Never seen them before.” 

“Wonder what Niall’s doing, working for them,” I mused. “He doesn’t seem like a prostitute. Seems like a nice guy.” 

“He might just be working with them in another way,” Harry pointed out. “Maybe managing the money or something. I was thinking the same thing.” 

At Sherlock’s insistence, Harry and I retreated to our room, where we spent the rest of the afternoon talking through theories and trying to find links between the three lads. I thought they might have known each other as kids, but then I remembered Niall’s Irish accent, which brought up the question of what he was doing in London. 

Harry shrugged. “Well, we do get all kinds of people here in London. It might be interesting to know, though.” 

I rolled onto my stomach and shut my eyes, suddenly tired. “God. This whole solving mysteries thing…can’t say I ever thought I’d be doing any of this. Kind of expected to come out of uni and work in a hospital or something, you know?” I laughed into the pillow. 

Harry chuckled. “Yeah. Hey, I might be able to get you a job at the café downstairs while you look for something.” 

“That’d be good.” I smiled, though I knew he couldn’t see me. “I mean, I have money saved away, probably enough to split the rent for a good couple of months, but I know I’ve got to find something pretty soon. I can’t wait for too long.” 

“Don’t worry. You’ll find something.” Harry sighed. “Hope I do, too.” 

“Did you go to university?” I picked my head up and looked over to his bed. He was lying flat on his back and staring straight up, his hands behind his head. 

“Yeah,” he said after a short pause. “London School of Economics. Philosophy, logic, and scientific method, with some courses in social psychology. Haven’t found a good job yet—well, you knew that. I was working at the British Museum for a bit, in their library and archives and stuff like that. Maybe I’ll move out of here one day and be my own consulting detective. I do like doing that.” He chuckled. “Sherlock’d kill me, though. Well, maybe. He likes being the only consulting detective in the world, but he might not mind me doing it as well. I don’t know, though.” 

It was so easy to listen to Harry talk. His voice, slow and raspy, ambled along at a leisurely pace that was relaxing in a non-boring way. I just hummed in response, not really sure what to say. 

“Lou, you are going to stay for a while, right?” he asked, suddenly looking at me. 

“What do you mean, Harry?” 

“I mean here in the flat. You said something about moving out.” 

“Oh. Aw, Harry, I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe when I get a good job and I can afford a place by myself, I’ll move out again. But I don’t think that’ll be for a while,” I added quickly at the dejected look on his face. “I’ll be here for a few months, at least, I know.” 

“Good. ‘Cause it’s nice living with someone who isn’t always running around or demanding coffee or kicking me out of the living room.” Harry grinned, and I couldn’t help but smile back. Yes, I’d be staying for a while. 

I didn’t realise it, but I fell asleep at some point and didn’t wake up again until Harry was shaking my shoulder. “Lou. Lou. _Louis_.” 

“Hmm, what d’you want?” I forced my eyes open and peered up at him. 

“Louis, it’s almost nine o’clock. Don’t you want something to eat? You haven’t eaten since this morning.” 

“You sound like my mum,” I grumbled, burying my face in my arms. “I wanted to sleep. Thanks for waking me up.” 

I heard him laugh. “Alright, then, but you’ll miss my wonderful cooking.” I felt the bed shift, and I thought he’d sat on the bed with me till the mattress started bouncing. 

“What the hell?” I looked up to see him jumping on my bed like a five-year-old on Christmas morning.

“Pleeeeeease?” he pleaded, green eyes wide and hopeful. 

Well, shit. Those puppy eyes were damn well impossible to say no to. “Aw, fine. But just so you know, that won’t work every time, _Styles_.” I glared at him as I rolled off the bed and stood up. 

Harry just skipped—literally, skipped—down the stairs. I shook my head. What had gotten into the boy? I was having a hard time reconciling this bouncy, silly Harry with the contemplative, serious Harry I’d seen just hours ago at the crime scene. But I couldn’t say I didn’t like both sides of him. He was growing on me, and fast. 

Down in the kitchen, I saw him sticking a plate of food into the microwave. “Chicken stuffed with mozzarella and carrots,” Harry said before I could ask. “That is, the chicken and the carrots are separate.” 

“Sounds great,” I said enthusiastically as I pulled out a chair and moved a stack of papers to the side. “So you’re a cook. Never would have expected that, to be honest.” 

“Nobody does,” Harry said, oddly cheerful. “But I like it. It’s better than takeaway or eating out all the time. Saves money, too.” 

I glanced around the flat. “Where’s Sherlock?” 

“Hmm?” Harry took the plate out of the microwave and set it down in front of me. “Oh, he’s probably in his room. He went right up after I made him dinner and hasn’t come down since. He’s probably got the phone and the datebook in there with him.” 

Harry was a really good cook. Phenomenal, actually. His cooking was second only to my mum’s, and even that was close. I couldn’t remember the last time I ate so quickly. And though I didn’t realise it until I started eating, but Harry was right—the last meal I’d had was breakfast, and I had no idea how hungry I was until now. Harry just sat next to me, a proud little smile on his face the whole time.

“Alright, Harry,” I said with a laugh once I was finished, “I’ll forgive you this once for waking me up. But just this once. And those damn puppy dog eyes aren’t going to work anymore from now on, clear?” 

Harry laughed and punched my shoulder lightly. “Yeah, okay. Keep telling yourself that, Lou.” 

“Shut up, Styles.” I decided I needed to come up with a better nickname for him than just calling him Styles. Something sort of ridiculous, like him. Oh, I’d come up with something eventually. 

“Here.” He took my plate and rinsed it off. “Are you going back to sleep?” 

“I _was_ going to, but some idiot came and woke me up.” I raised my eyebrows at him. “So I can’t fall asleep tonight, it’ll be all his fault. But anyway, I need tea.” 

“Tea, again? Really?” Harry chuckled. “Jesus, Lou, you’re _always_ drinking tea.” 

“It’s ‘cause I like it,” I snapped, standing up and turning the stove on again. “I can’t go to bed without a cuppa.” 

“Why’s that?” 

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Habit, I guess. It’s like, why do kids sleep with stuffed animals? It feels weird if I don’t.” 

“Then how do you explain falling asleep just now?” Harry wanted to know. 

“That’s different. That was like a nap, I guess. I mean like, if it’s night time, I can’t go to sleep without having a cuppa.” 

Harry smiled. “That’s kind of cute.” 

“Shut up,” I said again. “I still haven’t come up with a stupid name for you yet, but don’t worry, I’m sure I will eventually,” I said several minutes later, pouring the water into my cup and stirring. 

“And the pen thing’s funny, too.” 

“And what does that tell you about me, hmm?” I teased him. 

Harry quirked his mouth to one side. “You really are an interesting one. I can tell so much about you but at the same time absolutely nothing at all.” 

“Oh, good. Glad to know I’m not giving all my secrets away. Think Sherlock could figure me out?” 

“Oh, shut up. Sherlock’s good, but I think even he’s been having a bit of a hard time with you.” 

I wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or an insult. I decided to take it to mean I had an air of mystery. “So I’m mysterious. Got it.” I laughed. “I’ll leave you to ponder my penchant for pens, then, and I’m going to bed.” 

I left Harry downstairs and made my way up to the room. Several texts to Eleanor and my mum later, I was lying in bed with the lights off. About five minutes later I heard Harry come clomping up the stairs. “Have I told you how loud you walk, Harry?” 

“Only this morning.” I heard Harry fall onto his bed. 

“Shut up, Hazza,” I shot back without thinking. As soon as I realised what I’d said, I laughed a little. I hadn’t meant to call him that, but it was only natural, I supposed. Just like him calling me Lou. 

I didn’t think he’d hear, but he did. “What’d you say, Lou?” 

“I’m calling you Hazza from now on,” I said, pleased with myself. “For calling me Lou.” 

“What?” 

“You’ve been calling me Lou.” I raised my eyebrow, even though it was dark and I knew he wouldn’t see. “It’s only logical I call you Hazza, now, isn’t it?” 

Harry let out a little hum of laughter. “I suppose so.” 

As I pondered whether I should say good night—was that something roommates or flatmates did? I couldn’t remember what I’d done at uni—I heard Harry’s breathing slow and even out, and I knew he was sleeping. Well, that was one less thing to worry about. 

I turned over and it wasn’t long before I was asleep as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading xx
> 
> Tumblr: [styleslock](http://styleslock.tumblr.com)


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis hates waiting, Harry wears a beanie, and Sherlock knows everything (but what else is new.)

The next morning Harry beat me to the toilet. I ended up standing outside the door tapping my foot for nearly quarter of an hour. 

“Harry! For God’s sake, all I want to do is brush my teeth!” I shouted impatiently. “What the hell is taking you so long? You didn’t take this long yesterday!” He wasn’t really taking all that much time, but I wasn’t in a patient mood. 

“Forgot to comb my hair yesterday,” his tired voice shot back. “Got to fix it today.” 

I rolled my eyes. “Sherlock was right. You worry about your hair far too much.” 

“Yeah, and how long do you spend, huh?” 

I shrugged. “Five minutes? Not nearly as long as you.” In truth, it was more like twenty, but he didn’t know that and I just wanted to bother him. 

“What time’s it?” Harry wanted to know as he opened the door. His hair was tucked under a grey beanie. 

“Jesus, all that time on your hair and you go and hide it under that hat.” I scowled and brushed past him, not bothering to close the door behind me. 

“Lou, what time’s it? Oh, never mind.” Harry glanced at the clock. “Oh, it’s half seven.” 

“Yeah. Still early,” I said. “Did Sherlock say what time he was going back to the police station?” 

“No, but he probably won’t go till later. Maybe afternoon or something.” Harry shrugged. “Wonder what he’s come up with from looking at her phone.” 

“Maybe we can find some of her friends. Figure out who’d want her dead and why,” I suggested. 

Harry laughed. “Oh, Sherlock’s probably got all that figured out, I’m sure. Probably come up with eight suspects by now. The question is just finding the one.” 

I tilted my head. “And how far have _you_ gotten with this case, Hazza?” 

“I’ve been thinking about it a bit. Not nearly as much as Sherlock has, but definitely been thinking about it.” 

“I still feel bad for Niall,” I confessed. I still couldn’t get the poor lad’s scared face out of my mind. “Tough break he’s had.” 

“Why Niall?” Harry asked curiously, his voice suddenly sounding gruff. 

“Did you see the look on that lad’s face all last night? Poor guy’s going to be scarred for life. Imagine just going thinking you’re going to check on a friend and you find her like that,” I said as I started preparing the water for tea. 

Harry just gave me a funny look. “Alright, Louis. Whatever you say.” He turned away and sat down on the sofa. 

Huh. That was weird. But I shrugged it off and started heating up the stove. “D’you want tea again, mate?” I asked, trying to diffuse the tension that had suddenly settled on us. 

“Sure.” He was lying on the couch, staring straight up at the ceiling. “Thanks.” 

I furrowed my brow. “What’s up?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Aw, come on, Harry.” I walked over and sat on the coffee table. “What’s the matter?” 

Harry let out a long breath. “Nothing,” he said finally. “I’m just…just tired. It’s a lot going on. I get kind of short when we’re working on cases. Sorry.” 

I wasn’t sure I fully believed him, but the kettle started to boil then and I had to get up and pour out the water. “English Breakfast again?” 

“Yeah. Thanks.” He sat up when I brought the tea over to him. 

Sherlock emerged, yawning, from his bedroom quarter of an hour later, muttering to himself. 

“Morning, Sherlock,” Harry said with a smile. 

“Harold. Tomlinson,” Sherlock replied curtly. “Got to get down to the station.” 

“Did you look at the phone last night?” I asked. 

Sherlock threw me a glance that might have been one of offense. “Of course I _looked_ at it. What do you think I was doing with it all last night?” 

“Well, what have you found? Or are you going to tell us when you tell Lestrade?” Harry cut in. 

“I’ve found some numbers. We’ll trace them once we get to the station.” 

“Why not just call them now?” I asked. 

“Oh, come on, don’t be an idiot. Why call someone we don’t even know? All we have is a first name. Ms Pembroke wasn’t one to put last names in her contact list, suggesting the numbers are those of people she is fairly close to but that doesn’t help _us_ very much. Better to look them up before we go calling them. And besides, we still need to find out everything we can about Cat first.”

 

Two hours later we were seated around the same table from the night before: Lestrade, Sherlock, Harry, and me. Lestrade told us he’d asked Niall, Liam, and Zayn not to come. Nick Grimshaw, I noticed, was absent. I wondered exactly what he did. 

Sherlock and Harry took turns talking through what we’d figured out so far. I was glad the other three lads weren’t there—it’d be horribly awkward talking about their supposedly secret scheme right in front of them. 

Harry wrapped up our conclusion. “So that’s what we think the bakery’s a front for.” 

Lestrade simply sat for a solid fifteen seconds, probably absorbing everything they’d said. “Wow. Alright. Are you sure, now?” he said finally. “Because I am not about to go accusing these kids of running a brothel if we’re not completely sure.” 

I saw Harry bristle at the use of the word “kids.” “I know, I know. But it’s all really kind of weird, isn’t it? Everything we said?” 

“It’s still not enough.” Lestrade shook his head. “Running a brothel out of a _bakery_ , of all places, wouldn’t be easy to pull off. It’d be hard to hide something like that in a place like a bakery. Usually they’re run out of inns or pubs down shady alleys or something, or out of someone’s flat.” 

“Can’t we track down where Zayn and Liam live?” I suggested. 

“We’re on that already. We do need a warrant to search their flats, though.” Lestrade paused. “We did some digging on Cat Pembroke. She’s twenty-one, would have turned twenty-two in November. No siblings. Both parents are teachers. Lived in Doncaster—” 

“Wait, what?” I didn’t care that I’d just cut Lestrade off. “She’s from _Doncaster_?” 

“Yes, and why is that so shocking?” Lestrade retorted, looking annoyed at my interruption. 

“ _I’m_ from Doncaster,” I said slowly, shaking my head at the coincidence. “No, no, that’s just too weird.” 

“Did you know her?” 

“The name doesn’t sound familiar, no,” I admitted. “But still. That’s really, really strange. She’s twenty-one, you said?” Lestrade nodded. “Hmm. Well, she’s four years younger than me, which is probably why I don’t recognize her name. Anyway, sorry, go on.” 

Lestrade huffed. “As I was saying. She’s from Doncaster, but our records show she moved to London when she was seventeen. Why, we don’t exactly know. She started working at the bakery two years ago.” 

“What is the bakery even called?” Harry asked. 

“It’s got a weird name. It’s called Ziam’s Pastries,” Lestrade said. “We think it’s a combination of Liam and Zayn’s names.” 

“Huh. Weird, but it makes sense.” Harry nodded. “Sorry. Go on.” 

“So it looks like this bakery is actually real,” Lestrade went on, pulling out his mobile phone and showing us the screen. “The website looks legitimate.” 

Sherlock dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “Back to the girl. What else do we know about her?” 

“The bakery was established that same year, which means she’s been with them since the beginning, or at least close to it. Before then she worked a few jobs in retail, but nothing major. Never went to university. Didn’t finish sixth form. She dropped out a year before she would have finished, and that’s when she came here.” 

“I have her mobile phone,” Sherlock said out of the blue. 

Lestrade shot him a look of surprise. “Her mobile phone? Where’d you find that?” 

“The flat.” Sherlock set it on the table. “There are well over a hundred phone numbers in here. Let’s track these people down and see what else they know about our Cat, shall we?” 

The Detective Inspector nodded. “Alright, then. Let’s see what we’ve got.” He joined us on our side of the table to look over Sherlock’s shoulder at the phone. 

Sherlock scrolled through the girl’s contact list. “About sixty per cent men. That should be expected in a profession like hers.” 

“But we don’t know that’s what she is for sure,” Lestrade protested. 

“Just go with it,” Harry muttered, and Lestrade rolled his eyes with a sigh. 

“Take this number down. I’ve found a woman named Lainey. Looks like she might be a friend.” Sherlock immediately launched into an explanation. “In the contact list there are a lot of numbers belonging to a lot of men. That in itself might not draw _too_ much attention but she’d be very careful to delete texts to them, wouldn’t she? But she probably wouldn’t worry about texts to her friends.” He tilted the screen so we could all see. He’d pulled up a text conversation between Cat and this Lainey person. It was all harmless stuff, really, and for a second I felt kind of uncomfortable, like I shouldn’t have been reading these texts. The texts were about nothing more substantial than Lainey’s new cat and some band releasing a new album. 

“Think she’d be a good one to call?” I asked. 

Sherlock looked at Lestrade and handed him the phone. “Find Lainey. See what connections she has to Catherine Pembroke.” 

“Has she come down to the station at all?” Harry said suddenly. 

“No, why?” Lestrade replied with a shake of his head. 

“Does that strike anyone as strange? I mean, if it were my friend, I’d be here trying to work the case out myself. Does she even _know_ what happened to Cat?” 

The three of us sat in silence for a full minute as Harry’s words sunk in. “Wow,” I said, shaking my head. “Oh my God. No, no, that _is_ really weird.” 

“Find her,” Sherlock said again. Lestrade stood, took the phone, and left the room without another word. “So, boys, coffee?” 

I shrugged. “Nah, thanks, I’m fine. Had a cuppa before we left.” 

“Yeah, me, too,” Harry added. 

Sherlock looked from Harry to me. “You didn’t both have English Breakfast, did you?” His voice was suddenly sharp—more so than was usual for him. It was almost accusatory. 

“Uh…no, I always have Yorkshire tea. That’s my thing.” I knitted my brows, uncomfortable with the way Sherlock was staring at the both of us. His pale eyes seemed even more piercing than normal, which was really saying something considering his usual intense gaze. “Why?” 

“Oh, just wondering.” 

Was it just me, or did he look visibly more relaxed after that? I shrugged it off, though. Obviously I was overthinking things—I guessed just the past couple of days living with Sherlock and Harry had done that to me. “So, let’s say we call up Lainey. What are we even going to say to her?” 

Harry shrugged. “Let’s see what Lestrade comes back with. I still really want to find out what her deal is, why she hasn’t been down here. I want to know if she even knows about this whole thing.” 

We sat for another few minutes in silence. I found myself doing anything to fill the void—shaking my foot, tapping my fingers on my leg, fixing my fringe again and again. I didn’t even care when Sherlock shot me annoyed looks. That kind of stunned silence did not sit well with me. 

Lestrade finally came back, and it took nearly all of my self-control not to jump out of my chair and shout, “WELL?” 

Sherlock beat me to it. “Well?” he asked much more calmly than I would have. 

Lestrade slid a photograph across the table to us. “Elaine Woodburn, but goes by Lainey. Twenty-four. Works at the Marks and Spencer on Tottenham Court Road.” The photograph showed a young woman with strawberry blonde hair, large blue eyes, and a rounded nose. She had a gentle face, much like Cat’s, with not a sharp angle in sight. “Lives with her older sister in a flat in Kennington. Originally from Gloucester. Her sister works for the British Museum.” 

“Hey, I used to work there!” Harry interjected. “Where exactly?” 

“I know you did. You probably wouldn’t have seen her. She’s in the gift shop.” 

“Oh.” Harry looked disappointed; he probably thought he had a connection to reach out to. “Sorry. Again.” 

“No matter.” Lestrade cleared his throat. “We’re not exactly sure who Lainey knows—well, _knew_ —Cat, but we can guess the bakery is part of that.” 

“So are we gonna call her?” I asked. 

“What would we even ask?” Harry retorted. 

“We’ll ask her what she knows about Cat’s death. Obviously.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah, but then what? If she doesn’t know anything about it, then we can’t just tell her over the phone,” Harry pointed out. 

“We’ll just tell her to come down to the station,” Lestrade decided. 

“Excellent. Does anyone have a phone I can use? I don’t want my phone being traced.” Sherlock looked at me suddenly. 

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, dear God. What do you want?” 

“Can I borrow your phone?” 

“You want to use _my_ phone because you don’t want _yours_ to be traced, but it’s okay if mine is?” I let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. From the look on his face, though, I knew in my mind that I’d lose if I said no. “Aw, fine. Whatever.” Sighing, I dug my phone out of my pocket and handed it to Sherlock. “Need the number?” 

Harry answered for Sherlock. “Nah. He’s got a crazy good memory. Photographic, like. He remembers everything. Every detail. It’s a little insane,” he said with a laugh. 

Sherlock was sitting staring at my phone, frowning slightly. “Tomlinson, can you unlock this?” he asked, almost grudgingly. 

I took it back and tapped in my passcode whilst Harry teased his brother. “Aw, come on, you couldn’t guess his passcode?” 

Sherlock glared at Harry. “With normal people I could have, but Tomlinson’s one of those habitual screen cleaners. No fingerprints whatsoever. And I already tried his birthday but that wasn’t it.” 

“How in hell do you know my birthday?” I demanded as I handed my phone back. 

“Looked you up. December twenty-fourth.” Sherlock grinned slightly as he typed something on my phone and then hit the speakerphone button. 

“I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to you knowing more about me than I do,” I muttered as the sounds of the ringing phone echoed in the small room. 

For some reason, I felt really, really nervous. What if she didn’t pick up? What if she _did_? Who would speak first? How would we breach the topic? My mind was racing and all of a sudden, I felt way out of my depth. I was supposed to be filing papers in a hospital, shadowing surgeons, and delivering medication to patients. Yet here I was, just months out of medical school, sitting round a table calling up someone and telling her that her friend had been killed. This wasn’t where I pictured myself when I finished school. 

Suddenly there was a click and a light, feminine voice answered, “Hello?” 

We all looked at each other. Sherlock spoke up first. “Hello, is this Ms Lainey Woodburn?” 

“That’s me. Who’s calling?” 

“My name is Sherlock Holmes and I am with the Metropolitan Police Department.” His words were carefully measured and paced. “This is about your friend Cat Pembroke.” 

A sharp gasp issued from the other end of the line. “What’s the matter? Is everything alright? What happened to her?” 

Harry furrowed his brows as Sherlock asked, “Ms Woodburn, when was the last time you spoke to Cat?” 

“A…a few days ago, I believe. Why? Is everything alright?” she asked again. 

Sherlock paused. “We need you to come down to the station as soon as you can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading xx
> 
> Tumblr: [styleslock](http://styleslock.tumblr.com)


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock asks questions, Harry asks Louis questions, and Louis isn't sure what the deal is with the nicotine patches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is a good time to say that I know nothing about how the Metropolitan Police Department works. I'm just going off of episodes of _Sherlock_. Apologies in advance for inaccuracies!

There was a long silence from Lainey’s end of the phone. “Why?” She sounded terrified, and I couldn’t blame her. A random call from the police on a Sunday afternoon couldn’t be good news. 

“Please just come. I’d prefer not to discuss it over the phone,” Sherlock said. 

“Okay…alright. Give me half an hour.” 

“We’ll meet you outside.” With that, Sherlock hit the end call button. “Well, that’s sorted.” 

“Do you want to wait till we’ve talked to Lainey before we look up anyone else?” I asked. 

“No, let’s just see what Lainey knows first,” Sherlock said. “For now, we just wait till she gets here.” 

“Who’s going to meet her outside?” 

“You go with Harry,” Lestrade broke in before Sherlock could volunteer himself, looking at me. “You two look far less intimidating.” 

I couldn’t tell if that of a look of offense on Sherlock’s face, but I brushed it off as Harry and I stood up and headed down to the front of the building.

The whole way down, I kept replaying the conversation in my head and feeling awful for Lainey. It seemed she really didn’t know about Cat’s death. And as suspicious as that seemed, I still couldn’t help but sympathize for the news we were about to deliver. 

Harry must have picked up on my mood, because he asked, “Lou, is everything alright?” 

I sighed. “I’m fine, Harry.” 

He frowned. “Come on, Lou. You don’t look fine.” 

I didn’t believe I owed him an explanation, especially after the way he’d suddenly gone cold after I told him about feeling bad for Niall that morning. Not to mention his refusal to tell me what was wrong with _him_ afterwards. “No matter,” I said, dodging the question. “Lainey had blondish hair, right?” 

We sat on a concrete wall just outside the building, and I shaded my eyes from the sun and looked around. The city was full of life, as usual. Businessmen walked briskly by, talking into their mobile phones and dragging their suitcases behind them; teenage girls walked in tightly-knit groups, chattering loudly about fashion and boys and celebrities; mothers strolled down the sidewalk holding the hands of their children. It was a normal day for normal people…and then there was us. Again, I questioned what the hell I was even doing wrapped up in all of this. I’d never meant to get involved in this sort of thing. 

“Yeah,” Harry said, snapping me out of my musings. “She probably won’t be here for a while, though. She said she needed a half hour.” 

“So we sit here for a half hour. Sounds alright to me.” I leaned forward and rested my elbows on my knees. 

“You feel bad for her,” Harry said out of nowhere. 

I looked up sharply to see his green eyes focused on me very intently. “Alright, you’ve got me,” I said gruffly. “What gave it away this time?” 

Harry just grinned, which irritated me. “You had that exact same look on your face this morning when you said you felt bad for Niall. Same reasons, too, I suppose.” 

“While we’re on the subject of things we haven’t told each other,” I said, determined to hold his gaze, “why’d you shut down this morning when I asked you what was the matter? If I remember correctly, after I told you I felt bad for Niall, you went and laid down on the couch and wouldn’t say why you were annoyed, even though you obviously were.” I chuckled. “I’m no consulting detective, but I do like to think I’m decent at reading people.” 

His grin turned into a knowing smirk. “That, I think I’m going to keep to myself, thank you. Read me if you can.” 

“What—Harry!” I whined, knowing full well I sounded like a petulant child. “You’re _really_ frustrating, you know that?” 

“I do. But however frustrating you think I am, Sherlock’s worse, right?” 

I had to smile at that. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right,” I grumbled, trying to still sound cross. 

The tenseness of the mood now dissolved, we sat in comfortable silence as the minutes ticked by. I shut my eyes and listened to the sounds of London. Cabs zipping by, the din of millions of people going about their business, the foreign accents of tourists and visitors. It was all such a change from Doncaster. It was busy and lively, yeah, but not nearly on the kind of scale that London was. I was determined to, after we finished up with the case, get out and see the nightlife and explore the city. 

Before long, a cab pulled up in front of Scotland Yard and a woman stepped out. It had to be Lainey Woodburn. She looked exactly the same as she did in her photograph, only she was much taller than I’d expected. Her high heels made her look about Harry’s height, meaning she’d tower over me. I stood up, though that did absolutely nothing but confirm my guess. 

Harry stood as well. “Ms Woodburn?” he inquired. 

“That’s me.” Her voice was high and light, delicate like her thin legs. She stuck out her hand. “Please, call me Lainey.” 

“Pleased to meet you,” Harry said, shaking her hand. “Sorry to call you in on such short notice. This is my friend, Louis Tomlinson.” I gave a small smile as I shook her hand. 

“You’re not the one who called me,” she said to Harry, then looked at me. “Was it you?” 

“No, that was…that was someone else. We’ll take you to meet him right now.” I motioned toward the door. 

She tilted her head, apparently confused, but she followed anyway. “What is this about?” 

I glanced at Harry, who replied with, “I think the detective inspector should be the one to tell you. It’s probably best you hear it from him.” 

Her already pale face lost what little colour it had. “Am I in trouble?” she asked, her voice sounding panicked. 

“No, no, it’s nothing you did,” Harry said quickly—well, quickly for Harry, that is. “You’re not in trouble at all. You’ve got nothing to worry about.” 

I sped up so I could open the door for them. Lestrade and Sherlock were engaged in a rather fierce-looking discussion, with their heads close together, but they separated once I opened the door. “She’s on her way. Harry’s with her.” 

“Ah, good.” Sherlock pulled another chair to one side of the table as Harry and Lainey entered the room. “Good morning, Ms Woodburn. Sherlock Holmes, and this is DI Lestrade.” 

“Lainey, please.” She shook hands with both Sherlock and Lestrade. “So what’s this all about? I asked them”—she pointed to Harry and me—“but they said I should hear it from you.” 

Lestrade opened his mouth to deliver the news, but Sherlock was quicker. “Your friend, Cat Pembroke, was found dead in her flat on Friday night,” he said bluntly. I probably should have been shocked at such candour, but I’d come to expect it from Sherlock. 

Lainey gasped. “Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no!” Her hands flew up to her face, and she burst into tears. 

My instinct was to put an arm around her and hug her close, like I did when my sisters were upset, but I had no idea how she’d react. I settled for a half-hearted hand on her shoulder instead and glanced at Harry. Now the difference between the two brothers had never been clearer. Harry’s face was a mess of emotions, the first crack in his façade of aloofness that he’d shown since the night before. Sherlock, on the other hand, looked disturbingly unaffected. I would have figured it was due to dealing with cases often, but that didn’t explain Harry’s reaction. The younger lad looked like he was about to cry himself—his brows were drawn so close together they made his eyes squinty and crinkly, like he was really struggling to keep tears back. 

Lestrade looked slightly perturbed and handed Lainey a handkerchief. “Thank you,” she sniffled, blowing her nose quietly. “I’m—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

“No, no, don’t be,” I said in what I hoped was a soothing voice. “It’s not your fault. It’s alright, it’s alright. Take all the time you need, love.” 

Harry snorted, and I thought he really was crying until I looked at his face and saw that he wasn’t. Huh. Weird. He’d been acting strangely all day and I really wanted to figure out why. No matter, though. 

It was several minutes until Lainey had collected herself enough for us to go on. “I’m sorry. Go on,” she hiccupped, the hysterical sobs now reduced to little shaky breaths. 

“Harry, you go,” Lestrade suggested. 

Harry reached across the table and gripped Lainey’s hand as he recounted what we’d found the day before at the crime scene. He didn’t go into detail, thankfully, but it was enough to make her well up again. 

“Do you want water? Or what about a cuppa? I can get you a cuppa,” I offered, looking to Lestrade. 

“No, no, I’m fine.” She took a deep breath. 

After Harry finished the story, Lainey looked perplexed. “I…think I get it, but who’s Niall?” 

“He works at the bakery with Cat,” Harry explained, casting me a glance. I was confused, too. The way Niall had been acting the day before had me—had us all—believing that he and Cat were pretty close friends. It struck me as weird that Lainey didn’t know Niall. Of course, it was possible that they’d never met, but surely Cat would have at least mentioned him as a friend. 

“What exactly has Cat told you about where she works?” Sherlock cut in suddenly, his tone biting and cold compared to Harry’s gentle words. 

“She—she said she worked at Ziam’s, but she never told me about any of the people she worked with,” Lainey responded. “Well, except for Perrie.” 

Sherlock perked up visibly. “Perrie, who’s Perrie?” 

“She’s the manager,” Lainey said. “You said you met Liam and Niall and Zayn?” 

“Yes, they were in here yesterday. Liam and Niall are the ones who found the body.” 

“Why didn’t any of them mention Perrie? I think she’s dating Zayn.” 

Sherlock and Harry both raised their eyebrows at the exact same time. “Really? How interesting. Now, Lainey, we need to know everything you can possibly tell us about Cat Pembroke. How you two met, how long you’ve known her for, anything at all. Everything helps,” Sherlock said all in one breath. 

Lainey shifted in her chair, picking at pink-painted nails. “Well, Cat and I met at her first job. She worked at Marks and Spencer with me. I’m still there, but she left when she went to work at the bakery. She really liked it at the bakery, and tried to get me to work there with her, but I didn’t want to leave my job.” 

“Did she say why she left? Was it sudden?” 

“Not really.” She shrugged. “I knew she wasn’t really liking it at M&S. I remember, just before the bakery opened, there were postings about it around and we saw one when we were out shopping one weekend. It said they were hiring, so she went and applied and they took her, and then she quit. That was…two years ago, I think?” 

“Can you tell us what she was like?” Harry asked gently. 

Lainey sniffed, tears starting to pool in her eyes again. “She…she was sweet. Very kind. She was kind of quiet at first, but once you got to know her she was the most lively person.” 

“Did she ever tell you why she came to London?” 

She nodded. “Yeah. She said she’d run away with her boyfriend. She was almost eighteen then. But she said that he left her not long after they got here. Luckily she got the job at M&S rather quickly and she had money that she brought, so she was able to stay in a run-down inn for a while. She actually lived with me and my sister for a while until she moved out.” 

“How old was she when she moved out?” 

“It was after she started working at the bakery. They must be paying her really well, because she was doing a lot better once she started working there.” 

I glanced at Harry. The fact that her money situation seemed to clear up after starting at the bakery seemed to confirm our guess that she was a prostitute. “Can you tell us more about Perrie?” I asked. 

“Cat and her were good friends, she told me. She thought Perrie was dating Zayn. Perrie’s the manager at the bakery.” Lainey shrugged. “I’m still kind of surprised Zayn never mentioned her. Cat used to say they were always together.” 

“Interesting. Very interesting. We’ll have to call her next,” Sherlock mumbled. “Alright then, thank you. Ms Woodburn. We’ll call you if we need any more help. Good?” Sherlock gave her a tight, controlled grin. 

“Oh…is that all you need to know?” Lainey looked confused. 

“Yes, as I said, we’ll call you if we need to talk again.” Sherlock reached over and picked up Cat’s mobile phone, effectively removing himself from the conversation. 

“Well, then, I guess you can go home now, Lainey,” I said after ten seconds of silence. “We’ll walk you down.” 

“No, no, it’s alright. I can go by myself,” she said, standing up. 

“No, please, let us walk with you,” I insisted. Harry shot me a look, but followed suit. “How are you doing, love?” I asked Lainey once we left the room. 

She shrugged. “It hasn’t really all set in yet,” she said with a slight laugh. “I want to help, I really do, but I just don’t know why this happened…where to start…” 

“I know, I know. You’ve been a great help already. We’ll be working on this, don’t you worry.” 

It was like trying to comfort Niall all over again, and I didn’t feel like I was getting any better, but damned if I didn’t at least try. 

Harry, I noticed, stayed silent the entire way down. I just kept talking, trying to keep it from being awkward, asking Lainey about her job. 

“Oh, it’s lovely. Everyone there is so nice,” she said, sounding happy for the first time. “My manager is so sweet…and quite attractive,” she added in a rush, her cheeks flushing pink.

I grinned. “Sounds good, then. You’ll get a cab home, then?”

“Yes. I have work later this afternoon.”

I glanced at my phone to check the time. It was nearly half eleven. “Alright. Like Sherlock said, we’ll call you if we need you again, yeah?”

She nodded. “And please let me know how the case is coming along as well.”

“Sure. We’ll keep you up to date.” I sat down on the stone wall while Lainey ventured out to the curb to flag down a cab, and Harry sat on my other side.

Before long, a black cab pulled over to our side of the street. She waved as she stepped into the back seat, promising to be back if we needed her.

“Nice girl,” I commented as the cab drove away.

“Yeah. Helpful.” Harry nodded as he stood up and meandered back into the building.

“Think Sherlock and Lestrade have pulled up anything about this Perrie?”

“Probably. I know Sherlock was getting excited about finding someone else to talk to,” Harry said thoughtfully. “I wonder why Zayn or Liam never mentioned her.”

“Guess they didn’t think she was important. What I still want to know,” I said, stepping into the lift after Harry, “is how Lainey never found out about Cat’s death. If they really were as close as she said, wouldn’t she have found out earlier? Like, tried to call or text and gotten suspicious when her phone went unanswered?”

“She did say over the phone that they hadn’t spoken in a couple of days,” Harry pointed out. “Damn. We forgot to ask her that. We’ll bring her in again tomorrow. Let her process everything first. But I wonder if that means they had a fight or something.”

“Could be. I don’t know, I’m just saying.”

Harry groaned. “Why didn’t Sherlock ask her any of this? Or Lestrade, even?”

“I was going to ask the same thing. Sherlock’s probably got seventeen different theories on it already, doesn’t he?” I joked.

Harry laughed. “Yeah, probably. It should be alright, though. He probably won’t start talking about them until we get home. He’s ten steps ahead all the time.”

“And you aren’t?” I teased with a raised eyebrow.

“Sometimes,” he replied with a smirk.

“Oh, come on, Styles, don’t pretend.”

He only chuckled and flung the door open. Sherlock had Cat’s mobile phone in his hand and Lestrade was gone. “Where’s the DI?” Harry asked. 

“He’s getting some information on Perrie. I’ve found her phone number in here,” Sherlock said, pointing vaguely to the phone. “By the way, Grimshaw’s working on contacting Cat’s family to tell her what happened, and I asked him to try to track down the boyfriend she moved to London with but he probably won’t do that.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because he’s an idiot,” Sherlock replied bluntly as Lestrade re-entered the room. “Ah, good. What do we have on Perrie?”

“Perrie Edwards. Twenty-four, same as Zayn. Manager at the bakery. Also happens to own the Rope and Compass pub, which isn’t far from Cat’s apartment.”

“Any romantic ties to Zayn?” I asked.

“If she has any, they wouldn’t really show up in our records, though we could bring her in and ask her.” Sherlock picked up my phone.

“Wait a second, though. Have we not been looking into Liam, Niall and Zayn?” I interrupted before Sherlock could dial Perrie’s number. “I mean, shouldn’t we be finding out more about them?”

Harry shot me a glance. “It’s best if we bring them in after we find out more about the case. Then we’ll have more to ask them.”

I shrugged. “Alright, I’ll go with it. You know what you’re doing.”

An hour later, Perrie Edwards was sitting in the small room with us. White-blonde hair hung in curls around a face of clean lines and smooth angles. Her blue eyes held a look of uncertainly, which was no doubt brought on by the fact that we hadn’t yet told her why we’d called her in. “Um, hi?” she ventured.

“Hi.” Harry offered a warm smile, which seemed to automatically put her at ease. Harry was that way, though—just making everyone feel relaxed. “Don’t worry. We’ll just ask you a few questions, alright?”

“Okay.” She crossed her legs. “Alright, so, what’s up?”

“This is about Cat Pembroke,” Lestrade began.

“Oh! Oh, yes, Zayn told me about it yesterday,” she cut in as the realisation of the purpose of the meeting dawned on her. “Terrible news, really.” Her voice cracked on the word “terrible.”

“So, can you tell us about Zayn and Liam? How do you know them?”

“Well, I’m the manager at their bakery, Ziam’s Pastries,” she explained. “I knew Zayn from secondary school and Liam from uni.”

“Which university?”

“West London.”

Sherlock nodded. “Did Zayn go to West London as well?”

She shook her head. “No, but he moved to London and we shared a flat for a bit.”

“Did you finish university?”

“Yes. Business studies with finance.”

“What was Liam studying?”

“He was studying the same thing, but he dropped out. Didn’t like it.”

“Was it the course he didn’t like or university in general?”

Perrie shrugged, her mouth scrunching to one side. “I think it was just university. He’s really, really smart, but he just was bored. He dropped out but I stayed.”

She looked like she had more to say, but Sherlock kept asking questions. “When did he and Zayn meet?”

“Actually, I was just about to say something about that.” She giggled slightly. “When Liam dropped out, he needed somewhere to stay, so I introduced him to Zayn and they found a flat together. In fact, they still live in the same one.” 

“So they’re really good friends, then,” Harry supposed. Perrie nodded in affirmation. “Now, this is kind of a personal question, but were you and Zayn ever…romantically involved?"

Perrie laughed for real at this. “Me and Zayn? Really? Aw, no, never. He’s not interested in women. At least not that I’ve seen.”

I felt my eyebrows rise. _That_ was really unexpected. I wondered why Lainey had thought Zayn was dating Perrie.

“Has he been linked to many men, then?” Harry went on. “Any right now?”

She paused, appearing to think. “No, I don’t believe so,” she said carefully. “Not that I know of.”

Harry looked at Sherlock. “What else?”

“What else can you tell us about the bakery?” Lestrade asked.

“What do you want to know?” she replied. “I mean, it’s not really much to talk about. They opened it about two years ago, and it’s been doing pretty well. They specialise in cupcakes.” She shrugged. “That’s pretty much it.”

“Do they have a lot of employees?”

“Not really. There’s Niall, Cat, me, and like four others. It’s small but it does well.”

“Do you work anywhere else?”

Perrie re-crossed her legs, switching which one was on top. “I also own the Rope and Compass. Small pub and inn in Soho.”

“And how is business there?”

“It’s just alright. That’s why I took the second job.”

“And do you have many employees there?”

“No. I bought the pub from its previous owner almost three years ago, and they left it in shambles. Just awful. I’m still kind of working on some things there. It makes enough to keep it open, but that’s why I’m at the bakery. When business picks up at the pub, I’m going to quit.”

Sherlock nodded, looking very much like he had everything figured out. I, on the other hand, had no idea what the pub had to do with anything or why Sherlock was asking so much about it. I figured he had some kind of plan, though. I shot Harry a quick glance to see if he was following, but I couldn’t tell just from his expression. He was chewing on the corner of his lower lip and looking very deep in thought. I figured he was either confused or formulating seven new theories of his own.

I didn’t realise I’d been staring until Sherlock snapped my name. “Tomlinson,” he said impatiently. “Are you going or not?”

“Going where?” I wanted to kick myself for completely losing my mind. I never stared like that. And at Harry, of all people? What the _hell_? This day was just weird.

“Going back down with Harold and Perrie?” Sherlock was looking at me strangely, and I had a sinking feeling that he knew exactly why I hadn’t heard him the first time.

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” I swallowed thickly and stood up, trying to retain some semblance of normalcy and not give away that I’d been so distracted.

Perrie didn’t seem to pick up on anything, but Harry did. He looked at me with the same kind of expression Sherlock was, the kind that made me feel like he was looking not at me but straight into my head and reading all my thoughts as easily as he’d read the morning paper.

We waited with Perrie while she hailed a cab, just as we had for Lainey. As her cab drove away, I said to Harry, “Alright, so, before we go back, I…er…got a bit lost. What happened after Perrie said she’d quit the bakery?”

Harry’s mouth twisted into a half-grin. “I know. It was kind of funny.”

“How long was I distracted for?”

“Oh, only about five minutes. I don’t think she or Lestrade noticed.”

“But you and Sherlock did.” I felt my face start to feel hot, and I hated myself for it. I shouldn’t be so self-conscious. I had no reason to be. I just let my mind wander, that was all.

“Yeah, we did.”

I purposely avoided looking at him as we headed back to the room. Sherlock was gone when we opened the door. “Where’d Sherlock go?” Harry and I asked at the same time.

Lestrade looked confused. “He said he was going home. You didn’t pass him on the way up?”

“No. Well, shit,” Harry swore. “Then I suppose we’ll be back…sometime. Bye.”

“Goodbye, boys.” Lestrade raised a hand in a farewell as Harry turned on his heel and jogged back down the hallway.

“Whoa, whoa, wait for me!” I called. For a lad who spoke so slowly, he could really run when he wanted to. I supposed it was his long legs. “Speedy Styles.” I slapped him lightly once I caught up with him.

Harry laughed. “Sherlock might be out there waiting for a cab, and if he is, we’ll get in, too.”

But when we emerged out onto the street, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. “Ugh, I hate when he does this,” Harry complained, moseying out to the curb and starting to wave his arms.

“He does this often?”

“Yeah. Sometimes we’ll be at a crime scene and he’ll just up and leave, and I’ll still be standing there with Lestrade and sometimes it’ll really late and I’ve got to get home by myself,” he replied with a brief chuckle. “Ah, here we are.”

When we reached the flat, Sherlock was still nowhere to be seen. “Probably in his room,” Harry said with a noncommittal shrug, and I didn’t know enough to try to contest that.

It was a bit after one, just around lunchtime, so Harry decided to make sandwiches for the both of us. When I asked if Sherlock would want one, Harry responded with, “Nah, best not to disturb him if he’s holed up like he probably is now.”

“But what about for later? You…you saved dinner for me last night,” I added as I remembered.

Harry just smiled. “You appreciate it more.”

We sat down at the table, carefully moving Sherlock’s various lab apparatuses out of the way to make room for us. “So, we’ll go to the bakery tomorrow,” I said in between bites, “and see Liam and Niall and Zayn?”

“Yeah. Well, that is, Liam and Niall and Zayn should be there. We’ll just pop in when they’re there. I think either Sherlock or Lestrade was going to call and see when a good time would be. Don’t want to catch them at peak time, you know.”

“Mmm.” I picked out a piece of lettuce that was about to fall from my sandwich.

“So, Lou.” Harry crossed his arms on the table and focused on me in that intent way. “I still find it funny how distracted you got.”

“Oh, don’t fuck about,” I scoffed, waving him off. “I thought we were done with that.”

Harry chuckled. “What were you thinking about?”

I tilted my head, matching his gaze but not answering. Lying did me no good, because he could probably see right through me if I did, but I certainly wasn’t about to tell the truth, either. That was the last thing I wanted to admit, even to myself.  It just wasn’t the kind of thing you owned up to. “What do you think?” I challenged.

“You were staring at me.”

“Someone thinks he’s important,” I retorted. “Cocky now, are we?”

“Well, was I right?”

Was it just me, or did Harry’s chair somehow move closer to mine? It felt like he was in my personal space now, his larger body starting to crowd in on mine. “Maybe.” _  
_

Harry raised an eyebrow. There was a smirk playing at his lips that was really irritating the hell out of me. “Only maybe?”

“Hmm, maybe.” I hadn’t planned on keeping up the staring match for this long, but I was stuck to the green magnets that were his eyes.

Suddenly there was a thump coming from far side of the living room and Sherlock emerged, muttering to himself and doing something on his phone. I wasn’t sure if I should be glad he’d saved me from doing or saying something potentially awkward or be mad that we wouldn’t get to see how the moment would have played out.

I heard the legs of Harry’s chair scrape the floor as he moved it back—so he _had_ moved closer, I wasn’t going crazy or imagining things—and began stacking the empty plates.

I let Harry clear the table and turned around in my chair to look at Sherlock. “So what have you been up to?”

“Just thinking.” Sherlock put his phone down on the coffee table and walked into the kitchen. “You didn’t happen to make coffee, did you?”

“No, sorry.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock breezed by, and I caught a glimpse of nicotine patches on his arm.

“You smoke?”

“What?” Sherlock opened the cabinet and pulled down a coffee cup.

“The patches on your arm.”

“Ah, yes, those. They help me think.”

I was still confused. “But…aren’t you only supposed to wear, like, one? How many have you got?”

“Just two,” he replied nonchalantly as Harry finished rinsing the dishes and came back to join me at the table.

“What time are we going to the bakery tomorrow?”

“I think we should shoot for right when it opens, personally,” I suggested. “Let’s check the site again to see when they open.”

“I want to find out when Niall is working,” Sherlock said. “Lestrade said he’d find that out, but I don’t feel like waiting for him. Is Niall’s phone number in Cat’s phone?”

“Um…” Harry flushed. “We left that at the station.”

“You mean you didn’t take it? Damnit, damnit, damnit!” Sherlock shouted.

“Sorry? You kind of left without telling us,” I pointed out, raising my eyebrows.

Sherlock huffed. “Now I need to go back and get it. You two stay here.” With that, he grabbed his coat and left the flat in a rush.

“Er…sorry,” Harry apologised. “He gets like that.”

“You’ve said.” I sighed, my eyes dropping to my hands. “Sorry I forgot the phone.”

“No, it’s not your fault.” Harry stood and relocated himself to the couch, flopping down on it so he took up the entire length.

“Hey, no fair.” I made a face at him and moved his feet off the couch so I could sit. He responded by putting his feet in my lap. “Hey!”

Harry just sniggered, his mouth pressed together in a ridiculous smile. “Shut up, Hazza,” I told him.

“I didn’t say anything! Now you’re being like Sherlock.”

“You laughed.” No matter how many times I pushed his feet off me, he kept putting them right back where they were. Eventually I just gave up and let him rest his feet on me.

“So, this case,” Harry said, abruptly changing the subject. His expression went straight from joking to pensive. “Now we’ve got Perrie and Lainey in the picture.”

“Yeah, and it’s only making me more confused. I still don’t get why Perrie would be working at the bakery if she owns that pub as well.” I shifted so I could rest my left foot on my knee. “It’s all really strange to me. Like, even if the pub isn’t doing that well, why would she take another job? Is that something people do?”

“Well, remember, this whole thing’s kind of weird, right? Also, do you remember what Lestrade said, about brothels usually being run out of pubs or flats? What if the bakery is really just that, a regular bakery, but Liam and Zayn are running their brothel out of Perrie’s pub?” Harry proposed, propping himself up on his elbows.

It took a few seconds for it all to sink in. Harry’s logic made an awful lot of sense. “Wait…so…then why do they even have the bakery?”

“So there’s a legitimate source of income for the records?” Harry shrugged. “Just an idea, that.”

“But it’s a good one. So say that’s true, then. It still doesn’t really help connect Perrie and the bakery.”

“I know, I know. I’m still working on that.”

For the first time I noticed the way Harry’s left eye squinted just the tiniest bit when he was thinking.

“Hey, Lou. You’re staring again,” Harry observed.

“I was not!” I replied, indignant. “I swear. What would I have been staring at?”

“Aw, come on, Lou. You are the worst liar ever,” Harry said with a laugh, sitting up suddenly.

Next thing I knew, his face was much closer than it should have been and his mouth was on mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading xx
> 
> Tumblr: [styleslock](http://styleslock.tumblr.com)


	9. Sorry!

Hey guys, just wanted to check in and say I'm sorry it's been so long since the last update. I've been hit with an awful case of writer's block and that combined with the fact that I didn't really plan this out all too well before diving in and writing has made it really hard to figure out where this is going. I also got distracted by a whole bunch of other projects. So for now, I'm putting this on hold. I'm not giving up, though! It'll be finished someday--I just don't know when. Really big thank yous to everyone who's read and commented and liked this! You're all great.


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